


The Circles: Book 2: Journey of Sorrow

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Canon - Solves frequent reader complaint, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Drama, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Joy, Plot - Surprising reversals, Plot - Tear-jerker, Post-War of the Ring, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Economics, Subjects - Explores obscure facts, Subjects - Geography, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Plants/Environment, Subjects - Politics, Subjects - Technology, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Experimental, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Mythic/Poetic, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2008-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 80,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.<br/><br/>Orphaned, their land destroyed, twins Elfhild and Elffled struggle to remain defiant against their foes. Goldwyn, stern and proud, refuses to surrender to despair's throes like so many others have done.<br/><br/>Each step on this journey of sorrow takes the Rohirric captives closer to Mordor, the Land of Shadows from which there is no return. Is there any hope of escape, or is slavery to be their doom?<br/><br/>The second book in "The Circles" - an alternative universe tale exploring what might have happened had the ending of The Lord of the Rings been different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

In [Book One, "The Triumph of the Shadow,"](http://astele.co.uk/henneth/stories/chapter.cfm?stid=6480) the mighty Lord of the Nazgûl narrowly escaped destruction at the hands of a shieldmaiden and a hobbit. Consequently, the West lost the Battle of Pelennor Fields and the proud city of Minas Tirith fell to the forces of the Dark Lord. To make matters worse, the Ring Quest was a failure, and Sauron regained the One Ring. In the months that followed, the armies of Mordor drove the forces of the West into Southern Gondor. With the armies of Gondor and Rohan locked in combat in the South, the only thing which stood between Mordor and the whole of Eriador was the Rohirric home guard, which was already hard pressed to guard Rohan's northern borders from attacks by Dol Guldur.

On the night of May 22, a force of black uruks surged past the Riders who guarded the Mering Stream and made the first encroachment into the Eastfold. After raiding, looting and burning every village in sight, they herded their captives back to the main army. Among the prisoners were Elfhild and Elffled, identical twin girls whose mother had been killed by the raiders.

Meanwhile, the forces of the West, though hard pressed, were far from defeated. After a major victory at Dol Amroth which sent the Mordorian Army fleeing, it was determined by the commanders of the West that a large force of men could be spared to march to the defense of Rohan. While Aragorn led a force of Gondorians over the White Mountains, Éomer and Prince Imrahil led an army of horsemen through Drúwaith Iaur and approach from the west. The Gondorians arrived at the fortress of Helms Deep just a few days before the army of Mordor besieged the fortress.

Though it lasted only two days, the Second Battle of Helm's Deep was fierce and bloody. On June 15, the Riders of Rohan charged onto the battlefield. With them were a host of Elves, who had answered a desperate summons which Aragorn had sent weeks before. Heartened by the might of their combined forces, the Western armies soon won the battle and sent their enemies fleeing. As the summer wore on, the army of Mordor was slowly beaten back to the Firien Woods and the Mering Stream became the boundary between Rohan and the occupied land of Gondor.

Yet all hope of rescue was lost for the Rohirric captives, and they marched ever closer to the Dark Land...


	2. So White the Simbelmynë

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

_Pelennor Fields, June 15, year 3019 of the Third Age under the Sun_

As the sun rose that morning, worn shoes thudded upon the battle-scarred ground, weary feet traveling upon the same path that had once been battered by the thundering hooves of galloping horses. So at last, on the 15th of June, the very day of that ill-fated battle three months prior, the captives came to the fields of Pelennor.

Though neither the captives nor their captors knew aught of it, another battle had been fought just the day before. Beyond all hope, the West had triumphed over the hordes of Mordor in fighting bloody and grim beneath the peaks of the Thrihyrne. It was the Second Battle of Helm's Deep, and after bitter retreat from the South, the Riders of Rohan and the men of Gondor had won glorious victory in the Deeping Coomb. To the dismay of the enemy and the answered prayers of the men of the West, a great force of Elvish warriors journeyed from the fair lands of the North and rode with the Riders of Rohan when they assailed the host of Mordor. Thus the battle was won, the day was saved, and the bruised head of the dark serpent drew back ere it ever could northward into Eriador.

Yet in Gondor, the plight of the captives was indeed a dismal one as they headed south towards the now conquered and occupied Minas Tirith. That morning, the orcs and Easterlings had broken their camp near the ruins of Forannest, the north-gate of the Rammas Echor, where they had spent the night before. Now the captives marched towards the sad White City which lay ten miles thither. No one would come to save them - not the Riders of Rohan, the Army of Gondor or the host of the Elves - and there would be no escape from the evil days that lay before them. Their fate was now held in the hands of Mordor, a land ruled by a cruel and merciless Master.

The ground was damp in places from the rain which had fallen the day before, but most of the water had been absorbed by the thirsting earth. Still wide cracks rent the ground, like gaping mouths begging for another drink so that their thirst could finally be slaked. After three months of darkness, the sun at last shone freely, but the land before them was desolate and the restored light brought neither hope nor cheer.

The stench of death still lingered in the heavy air which had once been filled with the sweet scents of flowers and freshly mown hay. Once green earth was now pocked from the scars of thousands of hammering feet and hooves, and deep ruts caused by the wheels of heavily laden wains were riven into the barren ground. Rubble was everywhere and the remains of brunt houses, broken siege towers and ruined wains were scattered all across the bleak landscape.

Far to the east, the dark peaks of the Mountains of Shadow, the impregnable walls of Mordor, were vague shadows of gloom upon the distant horizon. Burnt field and battered hill fell in sorrowful slopes towards the River Anduin. A land which had once been green and filled with plenty had been ravished and defiled. Gone were the town lands and homesteads, felled had been the orchards which once bloomed in the spring and bore fruit in the autumn. Even if some brave plant or thorn had dared to take root in the fire and battle-scorched ground, it would have quickly withered and died for want of light and water during the months of darkness. Many of the streams had gone dry in the drought but now at last after the rain of the day before, a trickle of clean water flowed through parched channels once again.

Rising out of the plain before the column lay the bony wreckage of some enormous giant. Strips of weathered hide dangled down between the ruined framework of its body. Atop the massive rib cage perched a carrion-bird preening its feathers. The stench was still intolerable, though the bird seemed unmindful of the reek. Many of the captives almost gagged at the lingering smell of death all about them, and wished that their hands were not bound so that they could hold the fabric of their garments over their noses.

The bird squawked at the column and flew into the air. Joined by his comrades which had been feasting in the depths of the moldering carrion, they screeched their objections at being disturbed. Swirling in the sky above the fallen corpse, they returned to land upon the points of the rib bones, glaring at the column as it passed. Flies, guests that knew the feeding was drawing to a close, buzzed angrily as some of the birds flew downward, returning to argue over the remaining leftovers of the grand feast. 

Captain Zgurpu looked grimly at the skeleton and spoke with a low, almost reverent tone in his hushed voice, "The crop of death was so vast that the harvesters could not gather it all." He ordered the band to increase the pace of their march.

"The lads who took the field had the pick of the meat but I daresay there was too much flesh even for them," laughed Sergeant Glokal. "Now the carrion-birds gather the last of the crop, but there'll be a fresh one for them to reap in the North. Plenty of meat for orc, bird and beast!"

Some holding the sleeves of their tunics over their noses, the cavalry troop and their sergeant rode a distance away in front of the orc companies. All were glad that this troublesome duty would soon be over, and both the troop of horsemen and the orcs could head back to Rohan. All would miss the company of fair captives, and though only words, devilish winks and shy glances had passed between them, impetuous promises never meant to be kept had been exchanged between the troopers and the captives.

"Glokal, keep your voice down. It wouldn't do for the Easterlings to hear such talk," worried the captain. "They burnt all of theirs that they could find."

"That they could find," the sergeant whispered, "but they didn't find them all." His grin was wide, showing the gaping spaces where some of his fangs had been knocked out and the snags where others had been broken. "I might say, sir, that they did not have nearly as much lard on them as the strawheads, but there's some as like stringy meat. Say eating such makes 'em stronger. But give me the fat meat any day, streaked with lots of blood!"

"Don't let them hear you say that! No point in irritating them. So far, they have not been too overbearing this time. You know what unholy tempers the Southrons and Easterlings have. They'd as soon cut your gizzard out as look at you! The cavalry will be riding with us on the return, and if you want to keep your head on your shoulders, you'll mind your manners around them! We'll be back in the North soon enough anyway and there's feasting on the flesh of man and horse ahead for us!" the captain exclaimed gleefully.

"No doubt, the lads up there have already won all the battles and there will be few spoils for us," lamented the sergeant.

"Sergeant, the Northern campaign will take longer than you might think before we triumph. There's going to be plenty more in store for us there. Who knows what delicacies we might find, both to please the pallet and the flesh... maybe even some stout, lusty wenches to take back to the dens." 

"Ay', but right now these carrion-birds are giving me the creeps. Glad it's not my bones they're picking!" The sergeant shuddered as he looked up at the large black raven which glared at him from its perch upon a whitened hip bone.

Here and there across the fields, the great hulking skeletons of more mûmakil rose in stark relief against the rolling ground. They lay like ships which had been beached upon a dismal shore, battered and driven by a storm so violent that the ships had floundered before the cruel winds. Some stark white frames stood almost erect, listing only slightly, making a sharp contrast to the others who lay adrift upon the ground on their sides. Their bony spines rose into the air, great tusks extended from mighty heads now bellowing a cry unheard. They seemed to march in silent review, moving to a destination which they neither knew nor understood, but still going forward, plodding in their brute strength, summoned at their Master's call and doing His bidding. The dead cavalry of the mûmakil fought now in silent repose, still moving out to face an enemy who, like them, had been turned to bone.

Silent sentinels now, their great forms marked the path upon which the orc captain led the column. Few were his words as he urged them on, lost in his own quiet reverie. His men's mood matched his own, and little was heard save the distant croaking and calling of the carrion-birds as they reveled in the last meals of their fallen prey.

Even the sound of plodding iron boots, flails falling on slow-moving legs and clomping of horses' hooves seemed to fade into a strange, muffled silence. Though the sun shone brightly, the field seemed cold and gray, as though it were locked in an eternal winter. The mûmakil watched through empty eye sockets, caverns of black upon white hills.

All of worth had long since been pilfered from the bodies of the dead. Now only plowed rubbish remained of once great shields, valiant helms and armor, strong swords, proud spears, arrow tips that once flew - whether hitting their mark or missing none could say - and nothing was left of a great host save a few fragments, scattered here and there like lifeless petals of death flowers strewn by a careless hand.

On the column marched, their quiet cadence out of harmony with the cries of the death birds which grew ever more distant. Skeletal hands with no arms seemed to beckon them forward, groping as though searching for some reason, some meaning, as to why they had been ripped so callously from the arms that once had borne them. Skeletons of horses, some with their bones poised as though in some gristly gallop, rushed ever onward into a battle now lost, their riders' cries of war hushed in death.

On they marched through the grim fields of decay, the reapers of the havoc now mixed with the crop. Both bone and skull of man and orc lay atop one another, and stripped of the flesh scarce little difference could be noted between the two - bone upon bone, thigh upon thigh, shank upon shank, arm bone, knee joint, ribs and collar bones, foot and ankle, hand, arm and finger - all tramped by death into the same vintage.

The column seemed to slow its pace, held suspended, the dead and the living in lock-step together, listening to some herald, a silent tune played on drum, horn and pipe whose sound had long been stilled. One foot down, one foot forward, then another, and on to the next. Living and dead both marched to a slow dance of death.

Before them now lay a broad avenue, marked at its borders by a line of poles, each mounted with its own skull who smiled a grim greeting to the column - captor and captive alike. The lifeless heads grinned down upon them in a sure knowledge that soon the one would be like the other. The sepulchral mouths pronounced a silent benediction - "As I am now, so shall ye be."

Some of the skulls had inscribed upon their foreheads rude etchings, while others had dull red paint to mark the eye sockets. Here and there a proud Rohirric helm, crushed and battered, crowned the brow of a skull. Under each grinning head the poles were festooned by streamers of braided horse manes and tails adorned with dangling lines of knuckle bones held together by hair the color of straw.

Elfhild stared in horror at the skulls, some morbid fascination holding her mind in its clutch, and she gawked at the ghastly markers, unable to look away. Once those empty eye sockets had been covered with flesh and held blue eyes which had flashed in anger or twinkled merrily or shed tears of mourning. Did they sorrow even now for the living? Did their shades wander in loneliness through the night, singing songs of lamentation, the spectral keening of the brokenhearted ones who lingered behind?

She wondered how each one had died. Had their heads been cruelly severed in the heat of the battle or had they fallen by other means: the spear through the heart, the gash of the sword, the piercing blow of the arrow? Had they languished in agony, pierced by mortal blows? Had they suffered, or had the end come mercifully quick? How does one count the measure of suffering? Did the enemy laugh at the moans and shrieks of the wounded as they futilely tried to crawl away? Had the orcs pilfered the forms of the fallen, eaten the cooling flesh of the dead - or even worse, the still throbbing muscles and sinews of the wounded - and then finally turned their wicked hands to making vile markers out of the heads of brave Riders? Elfhild shuddered at these macabre thoughts.

The captives solemnly shuffled by the two rows of columns as though in a belated funeral march, almost hesitant to leave the gristly sights of death behind them. Could living hands offer comfort to the slain? Could they hear the wails of the mourning? Could still hearts feel the throbbing of those who were still alive?

The lifeless gaze of one skull in particular seemed to grasp at Elfhild's heart, causing her breath to catch in her throat. A silent exchange passed between living and dead, and she reeled from the sudden knowledge. In that moment, she knew that she now beheld her father, as though his skull itself had spoken to her. Perhaps it had...

"No..." she whispered, but the sagacity held within the shadowy pools of that head now barren of flesh could not be denied. The bitter truth unfolded itself before her as a scroll inscribed with bold black letters of cruel veracity by the heavy hand of merciless doom, and her heart read clearly what was written there.

"Father," she whimpered. "Father? Eadfrid?"

There was a certainty that they knew that she was here. She longed to reach out for them, to join them and to comfort them in the lonely silence of the slain.

"Keep marching!" an orc snarled.

"Can you not let us mourn!" Goldwyn's beautiful voice rang out harsh and savage, like a discordant note in an otherwise lovely song.

"Damn whores, keep moving!" the orc cursed as he brought the flail down across the backs of her legs. Their heads turning to look backward, the widows and orphans stumbled on as they began to chant a low keen of mourning.

"They are dead... all dead," Elfhild whispered to her sister beside her. She closed her eyes tightly, forcing tears to spring forth from crystal pools held by her lashes.

Elffled nodded gravely. No further explanation was needed. She knew exactly of whom her sister spoke: their father Eadbald and brother Eadfrid. Yet she wept not, for how can ice caught in the darkest depths of winter melt into cascading waterfalls? Cold she was, numb and nerveless, the icy chill of incomprehensible sorrow curling itself about her heart like a billowing wind of snow and frost. 

"Our hearts are broken and so they will remain unchanged until death take my sister and myself and mayhap then we find peace. Orphaned, homeless, slaves," Elffled thought despairingly, "the tale of our years shall end in sorrow and woe and evil will be all our days." She cast a furtive glance back at the skulls. "Perhaps they are the fortunate ones, for they are beyond pain. Perhaps they mourn for us, for we are yet alive. Though they lay not in hallowed mounds and the enemy flaunts their earthly memories as tokens of defeat, at least thralldom and bondage shall never be their fate." Darkness clouded Elffled's mind and she stumbled forward with the rest, blind beggars lost in a storm of unending gloom.

A triumphant march, a processional parade welcomed by the smiling faces of death, footsteps falling silently, heralded by the lines of poles - the column marched on.

At last they came to the end of the procession route. The path led on around a small bend and there awaited a stark, a pale mound flanked by two smaller knolls. Vast quantities of bones of horse and man all lay piled together, white mounds of strange simbelmynë.

The cavalry troop had halted at the base of the large mound and the orc captain gave the order to his men and the captives to stop. The captives, too numb by the stark terror of the sights which they had beheld, had shuddered when the realization had befallen them that this must be all now that remained of those fathers, husbands, sons, brothers and kin that they had so proudly bade farewell but a few short months before. Many wept openly while others muttered disbelieving whispers. The children cried and the little ones clung to their mothers' skirts.

Sergeant Utana turned aside from the mound as his troopers went on. He rode his horse down the line of prisoners and spoke to them soft words in Common Speech. Those who could not hear his words wondered what he had said and thought dark thoughts that he was gloating and boasting of the great havoc that his people had helped to bring.

When he drew near the space of Elfhild and Elffled's troop, he halted his horse again and looked above their heads. As he spoke, his face took on the features of a prophet who had been divinely blessed, and his words rained down upon the captives like judgment.

"Your group is the first among many Rohirrim slaves yet to come to behold the sight of this field. Perhaps you had wondered why during the twenty-two days of your captivity that no one had revealed what had happened at Pelennor. It was decided some time ago that the answer to all your questions about the battle and the fates of your families would be given here as a warning to you of the high price of resistance against a righteous force. You know without my saying who were the owners of these bones. Thus it will always be when usurpers and their allies attempt to resist the realm of the rightful King of Men and Lord of Middle-earth!

"Your men made a most grievous mistake when they set the course to help their allies and to wage a war they could not hope to win. At least now, wherever their spirits might have fled, they are probably free and enlightened as to the follies of their ways. While I am most proud of the great victory achieved here three months ago today upon the 15th of March, I do offer my condolences to you, their widows, sisters, daughters and kin. There is little I can say to you other than this: you may rest with the knowledge in your hearts that your children will be born in a land that has been brought into the light and know that the only true way to peace comes through the wisdom and power of the Great Master Whom you have called, up to now, 'The Enemy.' Now you will learn the way of discipline and call Him by the title He so rightfully deserves: 'Master!' May the fruits of your wombs be bountiful, blessed by the seed of superior races!"

From the midst of the low dirge that the women were chanting, Goldwyn's clear voice rang out. "You are all the filth of dogs!"

"Gag her and any more who dare interrupt me!" Sergeant Utana shouted, furious that any had dared challenge his words.

When the woman had been silenced, the sergeant looked up and down the line of captives to see what other reactions which his words had brought. Reading only sadness, disbelief and anger upon their faces, he resumed speaking. "Though you do not realize it now, a great honor has been paid to all of you. You could just as well have been slain where you were, or turned over to the troops for their sport, but our Master desires rule and order. Therefore for the benefit and protection of His subjects, in His omniscient knowledge, He has laid down wise laws for the governing of all; therefore, according to His designs and wisdom, you have all been spared that.

"Though some of you can look forward to a future as mothers of the new, stronger race of uruk-hai, others shall be the concubines of your conquerors. I am pleased to tell you, though, that a few of you have a far more glorious fate in store. Those who are chosen will be ushered into a state of blissfulness and radiance to which few mortals could ever hope to aspire. You will be the consorts of the Dark Gods!" He smiled benignly upon them. "In all things, learn to rely upon the benevolent graciousness of your Great Master!" The sergeant's eyes gleamed in a kapurdri-induced trance.

"I doubt that further words will ever pass between us, for after you are taken to the City, we must go north to help finish the fight that was begun here. Farewell," Sergeant Utana bade them as he turned his horse and rode past the orc companies back to the head of the column. Then he and his troopers trotted out of their lives and rode towards Minas Tirith.

"March!" Captain Zgurpu gave the grating order. The company moved forward, their eyes straight ahead as they skirted the great heap and passed between the larger and the smaller of the piles. Women softly moaned and children whimpered, their hearts stricken by the blackest of grief. Pale rising clumps of spectral white and gray, unhearing, unseeing witnesses of the life that went by them, the withered mounds did not mark the coming and going of any.

The ground steadily rose before the column in an a gentle incline and the bones and fragments of war became fewer and fewer. At last before the prisoners lay a broad expanse of cleared ground. The whole mass of orcs and prisoners breathed a great sigh of relief. The captain's shoulders relaxed almost unperceptively, although his sergeant was quick to catch the movement.

"Garn!" Captain Zgurpu exclaimed, almost merry. "That was a royal feast for the lads after the battle, and now there ain't nothing more than a dry bone upon which to gnaw." In truth, he had been filled with fear at the sight of the bones of so many of his kind. An officer never showed weakness before his men, though, for they could turn on him in an instant and rip him into pieces.

Now freed of an unseen yoke, the marching feet increased their tempo. "Won't be long now," the captain called over his shoulder, "'til we're free of the wenches and their squalling brats! And, lads, it'll be a bit of rest for us! You can be sure that the draught'll be flowing freely to celebrate these prizes that we've brought! In the City, we'll turn our charges over to others and after a night's rest, we'll be on our way back to battle and they'll be on their way to their masters' beds."

He laughed and the lads behind him cheered, some raising their spears in gusto at his words.

The spell of silence now broken, the captives slowly began to feel once again, to let coursing thoughts of white, grim starkness coil themselves about their minds. They were just beginning to fathom a small measure what they had just seen. Some were in denial and would not think about what they had beheld, pushing the thoughts back to dark corners of their minds. Others let the full, harsh horror envelop their souls in a crushing vice of despair. Every bone, every skull, every broken shard... was it the husband, the father, the brother, the uncle well beloved, the friend or lover?

The wails of sorrow clutched at the captives' throats and they were unable to give vent to their anguished screams. Only a few children sobbed, more from dread than from realization. Silence again fell and then a great moaning. It was too much to bear. Then like dark, rushing waters, piercing shrieks rent the air, crying out to whatever Powers would give heed and solace.

Death lay behind the captives. What lay before them? The dead had no answers.

So it is when glory, honor and valor die... the silent cry stilled in the throat. So brave the warrior, so white the simbelmynë, the flower of death, upon the fields of the slain.


	3. A City Lost and Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar  
  
A languid evening breeze brought the aroma of wood smoke and the enticing odors of food cooking, an inviting scent, comforting in its promise. Far above the gentle rolling slopes, a few flickering lights burned in the White Tower of Ecthelion. The City, sacked and looted three months ago, its streets now almost deserted, had folded its hands across its chest and lay in silent repose. Where hope had once lived, there was only desolation and the reminders of death.  
  
The City of Minas Tirith, once proud bastion of freedom, was no more. In its place was a broken ruin, a dream lost somewhere in the aging memory of the past. Now it shared the same fate of its predecessor, the bright star lost in the waves, the promise downfallen, cast down into darkness by a Foe Who could not be withstood.   
  
"Ruin and desolation, woe to the beholder. The ground is cursed!" the carrion-birds cried.  
  
"I wish those damn birds would shut up," muttered Sergeant Glokal. After looking at Captain Zgurpu for approval, he bent down and picked up a rock and hurled it upward at the raven.  
  
The bird mocked him as it flew and cried in its shrill, harsh voice, "Ka! Ka! You will be bird droppings soon!"  
  
The cavalry sergeant glanced back over his shoulder at the disturbance and decided that nothing was truly amiss. He rode on, uncaring, mildly amused at the distress of the orcs. What were they to him? Filthy brutes, misbegotten bastards of Elves!  
  
Aching limbs carried the captives forward as the flails of the orcs kissed the backs of their weary legs. The mood of the dark brutes who shepherded them had changed from one of superstitious apprehension in the fields of the dead to one of jubilation, the journey almost done, the time of celebration ahead.   
  
The orcs needed no encouragement from their captain to hasten their pace, for their destination lay just ahead. "Lads," Captain Zgurpu exclaimed, "see the fires burning brightly up ahead to welcome us! It'll be draught and ale and fresh meat aplenty for us all! And gold for the trove that we've brought for the Master!"  
  
The orcs cheered and Captain Zgurpu and Sergeant Glokal smiled, if smiling it could be called, for their features, even in mirth, seemed contorted in a defused anger, and their faces leered and grimaced more than smiled.  
  
Ahead of them lay the city of Minas Tirith, but their path did not go that way. They passed by the entrance of the City, its once great gate of iron smashed and broken by the might of Grond and the power of the Witch-king of Angmar. The wreckage of the gates of iron now lay among scattered rubble beside the posts of steel, pushed back to make way for traffic. The orcs paid no heed to the sight of wreckage cast aside, the forgotten strength of a vanquished enemy. Yet the City was not the destination for the captives.  
  
They marched by the ruined gate and then came to a rutted lane which angled southeast from the road towards a group of colorful pavilions. In the last light of evening, the captives could see a tented city which had grown up like funguses feeding on rot. Standards and banners rose into the air, all bearing the mark of the Great Eye. Here and there were interspersed the Southron serpent flag of scarlet and black; the standard of Khand, a silver lion upon a blue field; and the heraldry of other allies of Mordor.  
  
What had been the fields of plenty was now a canvas splendor of civilization set among the reek of the savage. Nothing more now than a way station and a symbol of military might and expansion, the land seemed to mourn the descent of all creation into a darkness even blacker than the First.  
  
Sergeant Utana halted his men at a gaudy tent marked with a green standard. Upon it was the emblem of a sheaf of yellow wheat gripped in the iron fingers of a black metal glove, the symbol of Nurn, the Garden of the Dark God. Above it, on a higher staff, hung the symbol of the Red Eye. All about the camp, torches on poles glowed in the dusk, marking the camp into orderly rows.  
  
The cavalry sergeant dismissed his men, and after the customary salutes, he watched them as they rode towards the Anduin. After they had watered their horses in the River, the men would tie them to picket lines while others prepared camp for the night.  
  
As he rode by him, Sergeant Utana greeted a small, middle-aged man standing in front of the tent. The tawny-faced man's hair was graying, and while he was nondescript in appearance, his cloak and his tunic of rich green bespoke of his wealth. His feet were small, almost delicate, as was the rest of him, and they were tucked into a fine pair of brocaded slippers.  
  
"Hail Shakh Awidan! The orcs will soon be bringing the women by. We just rode down with them on patrol duty."  
  
"May the blessings of all the gods be upon you, good Sergeant! Would you care to share a goblet of wine?"  
  
"No, but thanks to you. I must make my way up the hill and give my report."  
  
"Good evening, then, sir. I trust fortune to smile favorably upon you."  
  
"And upon you, Shakh," he touched the rim of his helm in salute.  
  
The cavalryman turned his mount and rode back towards Minas Tirith. His one last task for the day was to report to the command headquarters stationed in the Citadel, once the pride of the Kings and Stewards of Gondor. Sergeant Utana mused to himself, "They will be surprised to see me back so quickly, but I shall not trouble them long. 'Twould be good though if an officer would offer me a goblet of wine ere I go back to the North. He will have an easy enough time sitting on such a lofty prominence while perhaps I shall die upon an unknown field."  
  
The small man paid the Sergeant scarcely a second look as he rode away, for he had no interest in why the man was there or where he would go after he left. He was, however, eager to talk to the orc commander who had led his men behind the troopers.  
  
With a swaggering gait and an occasional grumbling complaint from the men, the orc company moved ahead. Soon the column drew up to the tent of the small man.  
  
"Hail, good Captain Zgurpu!" Shakh Awidan greeted him in Common Speech, his thickly accented voice somehow turning the language into a sonorous blend of East and West. "What have you brought us as the first spoils of Rohan?" He looked towards the captives. "I see that you have had a successful hunt, and a most attractive quarry it is."  
  
"Aye, Shakh Awidan, you will be pleased with them. There are many fine wenches with firm, round breasts and buttocks this big," Captain Zgurpu replied, spreading his hands far apart for emphasis. "Ripe and ready for the picking! You will be pleased," the orc captain bragged, obviously trying to impress this important personage.  
  
"Captain Zgurpu, I must have time to survey the bounty. As you know, I am getting too old for this business," he complained. "My joints ache and my legs have held me too long this day. Slaves!" he clapped his hands, and two brawny young men with shaved heads and slave collars about their necks came out of the tent. They wore simple gray tunics and the rude sandals of peasants upon their feet.  
  
"Lord," they asked, bowing from the waist, "what are your wishes?"  
  
"A folding chair and a goblet of wine," Awidan replied. "Hurry! I am a busy man and have much to attend." He sighed heavily as the two slaves went back into the tent.  
  
"Captain Zgurpu, do you fully recognize the calibre of the slaves that I am forced to keep in my service?" he asked. "Bad days are upon us! These slaves are not fit to live! Gondorians! Wretched people when free, and even more wretched as slaves. They are incorrigible, stiff-necked, proud, arrogant and lazy!"  
  
The orc captain laughed boisterously. "Shakh, I expect that soon you will take that out of them and have them lapping milk out of saucers like kittens!"  
  
"Perhaps, Captain, but that is a difficult goal to attain," the man groaned as he sank into the chair that one of the slaves had brought for him. The other slave handed him a goblet of wine and then both stood in attendance behind his chair. "Indeed, these two have been most unwilling, and I doubt that their obstinateness will ever be driven fully from them... but yes, they are enduring the disciplinary training necessary." Shakh Awidan smiled robustly. "Of course, the source of their pride was removed shortly after they were captured. For some time it was not thought either would live, but they are recovering nicely."  
  
"Do you mean, Shakh, that they have been--" Zgurpu's voice broke off in a loud guffaw.  
  
"I daresay that some of the spirit has left them now, and I think they will be obedient."  
  
"Were they--?" The Captain was now joined in his mirth by the laughter of Sergeant Glokal and the lads closest to them.  
  
"Aye," nodded Shakh Awidan. "Perhaps you have heard the tales about what is done to some of the male slaves?"  
  
"Aye!" The Captain slapped his thigh and laughed uproariously. "Then it's true?"  
  
"I like to speak of it as their 'betterment.' They could just have easily been hung up by the heels and left as food for the maggots and carrion-birds, but I believe in mercy when mercy can be applied. All know me as a man who takes great pity for his charges and always looks out for their welfare." Shakh Awidan slowly picked a thread that was caught on his breeches. He tossed the thread aside and belched loudly.  
  
"The meal was good," Awidan explained his gastrointestinal distress, "though I must watch everything I eat carefully. I am a frail man, you know, given to agues and infirmities and I must protect my health, guard it, lest I fall even more ill. This climate does not agree with me. Far too damp, you know."  
  
He pushed a hand against his stomach and leaned forward, belching noisily. "The physician tells me that I should cease eating so many spicy foods. Indigestion, you know. He says it could cause the ruination of my constitution, but I refuse to eat the weak gruel my doctor has prescribed. Spices cleanse both the blood and bowels of impurities, I always say. The physician, however, has ordered me to partake only of gruel, a few bland vegetables and an occasional piece of lean meat - no fat, you understand. I am to ingest a strong purgative every few days, and this I will not do! Spiced meat does a far better task of cleansing. A man must have meat and well-flavored, or he will wane and suffer an early death. I should dismiss the man from my employ, but he is a close kinsman, and that would only cause trouble within the family!"  
  
"Shakh, my sympathies." The orc captain was growing tired of the man's endless complaints about his health and ailments, which the orc knew were pure fabrication. "But as you were saying?"  
  
"To satisfy your curiosity, Captain - when I first bought these two men last year, they had only recently been captured in Ithilien. They refused to obey my orders, once even trying to escape! Most dealers will not tolerate such behavior, but I, being a kind man at heart and understanding, felt that they were worth sparing. But they were most vexing!  
  
"We tried whipping, starving them, but nothing would work and I despaired that they would ever prove to have any value at all. Then I knew the solution! Of course, they did not like the remedy. They were forced over a wooden stand, straddle-legged. My stout men held them down as one of my surgeons - one of my best - very skilled at this, I might say - with one sure stroke of the knife had them gelded clean. It was all over and the wounds cauterized almost before they knew what had happened. Well, not quite." He looked at one of the slaves. "They did cry like women for a long time."  
  
Awidan laughed. "But then, after they were buried up to their necks in the sod, they turned placid enough and began to beg for mercy. They shall be good boys now, eunuch guards for some lord's harem, of course. A pity they were not younger - they would have made such pretty boys. Smile for the Captain, lads; show them your teeth."  
  
The two slaves obediently opened their mouths, displaying their teeth. They smiled feebly and then looked down at the ground in shame.  
  
"They don't seem to like it too well, Shakh," Captain Zgurpu smirked.  
  
"See what fine strapping slaves they are. But," Awidan sighed, "they will probably all too soon have huge bellies gained from spending too much time in eating and idleness. But what can be done? They are eunuchs, good enough for the purpose that is ordained for them."  
  
Thoroughly weary of the whole discussion and eager to receive his pay, Sergeant Glokal scratched his nose and looked down at the bone necklace that hung about his neck.  
  
"Long ago I was awarded this proprietorship by the agents of our Master. This is a high honor for a man such as I, who is of humble birth," Awidan went on. He stretched out his slender frame in the chair, extending his legs while he drank his wine. Lounging there, he seemed in no hurry to pay the Captain the commission for the prizes.  
  
"Slave, fetch a goblet of wine for the Captain and his Sergeant. We have matters to discuss."  
  
"The Shakh is most generous," the Captain nodded. One of the Gondorian slaves soon brought Captain Zgurpu and Sergeant Glokal goblets of red wine.  
  
"I would see some of these wenches closer so I may more accurately set a value upon them," Awidan continued, smiling affably.  
  
"And perhaps sample a few of the wares, Shakh?" the orc captain laughed between great gulps of the wine.  
  
"As you know, I must turn aside from testing the goods, for the orders are that all must remain intact. They are to be distributed as my superiors see fit. As all know, I am a man of honor and never break Rules!"  
  
"Shakh, we will parade them before you and you will see the fine flesh which we have brought you," the Captain boasted as he walked over to stand beside the Shakh. "Sergeant, march the women before his Excellency's eyes."


	4. An Inspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Standing to the side, Sergeant Glokal oversaw the guards as they paraded the column of women and children before Shakh Awidan. The wily old slave trader looked the lot over carefully, his shifty eyes roving over their bodies, weighing their assets against their flaws. When he had established a rough estimate of value, he filed their approximate market prices in his brain. Occasionally, he commented to Captain Zgurpu, who usually made an obscene remark in Black Speech. Now and then, Awidan had the guards bring a slave before him for closer scrutiny. Catching sight of Elfhild and Elffled, the Shakh's eyes narrowed speculatively. He was obviously pleased and impressed with what he had seen, and all traces of frailty left him. His animated voice exclaimed, "Blonde twins with skin like flawless alabaster! Seldom are such pale, golden beauties seen in my land! Sergeant Glokal, halt the line! Bring the twin wenches over to me. I would examine them more closely."

"Aye, shakh." Sergeant Glokal motioned to one of the orc guards. "You heard him, private! Get those little beauties out of the column and over to his Excellency!" Soon the frightened girls were pushed forward by the guard. The Sergeant's rough voice barked out a stream of short, quick commands. "Smile for the shakh! Show him what fetching slave girls you are! Look pretty now!" No matter how much the orc cajoled, the sisters' expressions remained glum. Almost daunted by the sisters' apprehensive faces, Sergeant Glokal muttered a low curse in Black Speech. This pair was fighting him, but he was determined to display them to their best and show off their ample endowments. The better they looked to the Shakh, the higher the price that he and his comrades would receive for them.

"By my grandsire's hairy balls, do you call those trembling lips appealing?" Sergeant Glokal bellowed. "Curl up the corners of your mouths! Good! Good! You are trying at least! That's much better!" When the sisters forced wooden smiles, the Sergeant grinned to Shakh Awidan and Captain Zgurpu. Encouraged, he decided to push them further. "Now wiggle your arses! Swing 'em back and forth! Get some life in your movements! I'd frigging think you were dead! Come on now! Thrust up your proud knobs!" When neither obeyed the Sergeant's latter commands, he barked out to the guard, "Private, get those lazy wenches moving!"

The guard nodded and moved closer to Elfhild. "Want to smell my crotch?" he whispered as he pinched her rump. Elfhild gasped in pain. She was about to whirl around and spit in his face, but the orc pushed both her and her sister forward before she had a chance. With a cruel laugh, he stepped back to guard the sisters and prevent them from bolting.

Roughly thrust in front of the slaver, the twins felt disoriented and glanced around in confusion. Who was this man and why were they being presented to him? Did he wish to purchase them? Was he to be their master? They did not even know his name! Shifting nervously, they averted their eyes under the intensity of the Shakh's gaze and stared down at the ground.

Rising from his chair, Shakh Awidan stepped towards Elffled and looked her up and down. "Open your mouth, wench," he told her in a soothing tone that was as slick and greasy as oil. "Let me see your pearls."

"W-w-what?" she stammered. Utterly bewildered, her brain froze and she could not think. She shot a sideways glance at Elfhild, who looked back at her with eyes wide with worry.

"You do not understand Common?" he asked, scowling at her.

"Your Excellency," Captain Zgurpu interjected, "many times these peasants are too backward to understand any language other than their own." If he had his way, Zgurpu would test her knowledge of Common Speech with some salty words that would make her blush with shame. This was neither the time nor the place for that, however. The shakh would be far too offended with him if he did.

"I - I--" Elffled tried to force the words from her lips, but her teeth were chattering too much and her tongue did not want to obey.

"Glokal!" Shakh Awidan's voice grew more excited, rising in pitch as though his scrawny neck were being squeezed. "Hold her!" Clearing his throat, he tried to control his enthusiasm. If the uruks knew how pleased he was with the twins, they would demand a higher price.

"Aye, shakh," Glokal responded as he lumbered forward. When he reached Elffled, she looked at him in stunned disbelief and babbled like a frightened child, "I will be good! I will be good! Please do not hurt me!" He laughed as he wrapped a thick arm around her middle, the other hand grabbing her hair and yanking her head back. The pain was so intense that she was sure he would pull her hair out by the roots.

"I am going to die," Elffled thought wildly. She stared at Awidan, her terror rising as she felt the heat of his wine soaked breath catch her full in the face. Her heart hammering in her chest, she wanted to move, to run away, to escape, but she was frozen in terror. The orc squeezed her waist tighter, relishing the scent of fear which he smelled in her sweat. Whimpering, she closed her eyes and tried to pretend that this was not really happening.

"Foolish girl, why do you quake in fear? I will not harm you," Awidan murmured softly as he suddenly grasped her jaw and squeezed her mouth open with his thumb and fingers. Trapped in the orc's grasp with her hair twisted painfully around his thick hand, Elffled could barely move. Tears sprang to her eyes as she realized that all she could do was acquiesce to their demands. Perhaps if she remained very still, they would not hurt her. Sweat beaded up on her forehead and trickled between her breasts. She dug her knuckles into her back and clenched and unclenched her fingers fretfully.

Squinting, Awidan leaned over and peered into her mouth as he murmured soft words in an unknown language. She wondered what he had said, but then he returned to Common. "Stop twitching! I only want to look at your teeth." Elffled shut her eyes tightly and opened her mouth wide, drawing her tongue back as far as it could go. Maybe this would be over soon and they would let her return to her aunt and cousin.

"Watch her," Captain Zgurpu interrupted. "The little slut will bite your finger off!"

"No, Captain Zgurpu, I think she is learning to be a very well-mannered slave girl. Are you not, my sweet houri?" he asked as he looked back into the girl's mouth. Elffled mumbled plaintively and gazed into Awidan's dark eyes, which seemed to have softened. He ran his right forefinger over her lower teeth and then rubbed her upper set. Completing his inspection, he smiled at her and gently caressed her cheeks with the pads of his soft, thin fingers. Elffled hoped that he would not try to kiss her. With a shudder, she remembered that horrible Sergeant Daungha. Surely the kiss of an aging man would not be so forceful as the probing tongue of the filthy Sergeant! "There, there, little flower, everything is fine," Awidan assured her. "You can go back to the other captives." He looked at Glokal. "Sergeant, you may release her."

Elffled could not believe that the inspection was actually over! There must be more to it than this! The detestable Glokal had been loathsome and crude as he always was, but save for pulling her hair, he had not really hurt her. Even though the enemy noble had insisted upon looking at her teeth, he had not been unkind. Relief washed over her in surging waves and she felt immensely grateful.

"Thank you, sir, thank you!" she squeaked out, and then felt stupid for having said that. Should she have said more... or would it have been better if she had said nothing at all? She was not sure. She was just a peasant and did not know how to behave before the wealthy and powerful. Only on the few occasions when some great lord of Rohan had passed through her village had she been so vividly aware of her insignificance and humble rank. Now as a slave, she was even more lowly than she had been as the daughter of a simple peasant.

Shakh Awidan patted her cheek and beamed at her. "Go in peace, little lily." Blushing in embarrassment, she bobbed a hasty curtsy. Then with a sideways glance to her sister, Elffled scampered away to the anonymity of the line, where she would be just another faceless prisoner. She felt silly for having been so frightened of a harmless inspection.

"Do you want to look at the biters of the other one, Excellency?" Sergeant Glokal asked in a weary monotone, impatient to be paid and done with the business. Maybe the whining old prick had been so pleased with the other girl that he would not dicker too much over her price, but you never knew when it came to these Southern shakhs. The sleepy-eyed bastards could talk a good one all day, but when it came to paying up, they would try to cheat the poor uruks every time.

"Yes," Shakh Awidan replied, tugging the end of his beard thoughtfully. For a brief moment, he had a dreamy expression on his face but he quickly banished his thoughts, returning to his usual businesslike mien. Beside him, Captain Zgurpu had grown more restless. To relieve the monotony, he stamped his feet and scratched his belly as he prepared to wait for the shakh to inspect the other wench.

The sergeant pushed Elfhild forward. "No pussy-footing now. You be good to me and I'll be good to you. Open your mouth for the Shakh, wench, or I might make this unpleasant for you!"

"You hairy brute, you have never been good to anyone in your life, and I do not think you will start now!" Elfhild twisted her head around to glare at Sergeant Glokal and then turned her hate-filled eyes to both Shakh Awidan and Captain Zgurpu. "You have no reason to look into my mouth! There is nothing wrong with my teeth!" She would never give into them as her timid sister had! The sight of Elffled cringing and cowering like a terrified rabbit had filled her with rage. If only she had been untied and had a knife, she would have... she would have... What? Felt the bones in her wrist crack like twigs when the uruks wrestled the dagger out of her hand? She could hear the cruel sting of their mocking laughter as they forced her to the ground. What was the use of struggling? She was just one captive among many and there was no one here who could or would help her. She must not allow herself to think this way, or she would become just like Elffled! She would give them some fight! That would show them!

"A little spitfire, eh?" Captain Zgurpu shared a knowing look with Awidan. "With a temper like that, she'll be hot in bed, I'll wager, squalling and scratching like a she-cat in heat! She needs a strong man to swive her good, tame her down and make her all sweet and docile!" He laughed to himself as he imagined the carping old man trying to ride her. If Awidan could manage to get a stiff enough one on, he would probably have to order those two Gondorian pretty boys to hold her down while he tried to shove his ancient, shriveled prick inside her. Maybe they'd even have to help him put it in! By Grond, the Old Dark One's mighty maiden-crusher! That was funny!

"She ain't so sweet and docile now!" Glokal hissed after Elfhild kicked him in the shin. Angry, he pushed the points of his talons against her skinny ribs until she cried out in pain. 

"You are hurting me!" Elfhild exclaimed as she tried to thrust herself away from the uruk. His grip around her was like a mighty chain of iron! Frustrated, she clenched her bound fists and found the ropes just as unforgiving as ever. There was no use fighting them. She heaved a resentful sigh of protest and glared through the disheveled hair which hung over her face. "Please, if you stop trying to break my ribs, I will hold still!" 

"Not so feisty now, are you, little snaga?" Laughing, he clamped his fangs around her earlobe, letting her feel the sharp edges against her tender flesh. Waiting for the pain to strike her, she held her breath. Slowly the jagged fangs pulled away from her ear, leaving her skin dripping with foul saliva. A shudder of revolt rocked her body from head to toe and she longed to wash her flesh free of the uruk's abominable spittle. Oh, how she hoped that the lice which had infested her hair on the march would hop off and plague him!

"Sergeant Glokal, that will be enough," the shakh exclaimed irritably.  "There is no need to crush this tender bud." Sighed, he closed his eyes and touched his hand to his temple. "You are frightening her and causing my bowels to cramp! You know my health is not good, and discord causes the contents of my stomach to churn and my intestines to constrict." His expression was one of intense pain as he put a quavering hand on his abdomen and bent forward slightly, muttering and groaning.

"Aye, shakh, anything you say, but she is a fiery one!" Grunting, the Sergeant loosened his hold on Elfhild's middle. Damn him! Glokal thought. It would be just like the old fox to claim that the merchandise had been damaged and insist that they receive less for the consignment.

"Now just hold still," Awidan told her, his voice as calmly soothing as a farmer trying to calm a jittery mare. Elfhild opened her mouth wide, submitting to this degrading inspection. She felt like a filly on sale at a fair. A pensive expression on his face, Awidan ran his forefinger over the edges of her teeth, top and bottom. "Around thirteen or fourteen summers old?" he questioned.

Nodding her head, Elfhild mumbled a vague reply. Why should she tell this man anything about herself? Let him believe whatever he wanted!

"A good age for either the nuptial bed or the harem," the shakh chuckled, stroking a finger under her chin. "Unfortunately, your teeth and those of your sister will have to be filed at some time, for several are quite sharp. This imperfection is never tolerated in harem wenches." Elfhild paled and looked up at him anxiously. File their teeth? She had never heard of such a thing, and the very idea frightened her. Images of the rough metal files which the blacksmith had used to sharpen saws or smooth the hooves of her father's horse flashed through her mind. How could such harsh instruments be used on anyone's mouth?

"I have often wondered why she-slaves' teeth are filed, Excellency." A puzzled expression on his face, Captain Zgurpu glanced to Awidan. "We do not mind good, sharp bites from our females. In fact, we find their nips more than stimulating." When he saw the brief flash of anger in the Shakh's eyes, he knew that he had overstepped his bounds, but it was too late to correct his mistake.

Offended at the uruk's casual attitude and assumed familiarity with one so far above him in rank and importance as he was, Shakh Awidan furrowed his eyebrows in a deep scowl. "People of my land prefer not to discuss such matters in public, Sergeant." Such filth as the orcs were not fit to touch the toe of his shoe. Though even a whiff of the brutes made his weak stomach knot up in agony, Awidan knew that he must be patient and bear this insufferable situation. Business always had to come above personal feelings.

"Excellency, my humble pardon." Captain Zgurpu bowed his head as though ashamed. He tried not to laugh as he looked repentant. "The old bastard!" he thought to himself. "When he is together with his friends and surrounded by his dancing girls - or boys, if he has a taste for the same gender - I'll wager their tongues are not so pure! They probably say more obscenities than my kind do! All he wants is to make Glokal and me feel less than dung! We only put up with their arrogance for the coin we can make off them!"

"Now, Captain, let us get back to business." He turned from the Captain  and smiled benevolently at Elfhild as he tickled her under her chin. "Run along now, little houri. I have learned all I need to know." Giving her bottom a quick squeeze, Sergeant Glokal released her from his powerful grasp.

It was over! Not looking back or offering any thanks, Elfhild turned and ran towards the other captives. The shakh's eyes followed her until she had disappeared amongst the prisoners. 

With a regretful sigh, Awidan sank down into his chair. He motioned for the two Gondorian eunuchs to bring chairs for the uruks and goblets of wine for all three of them. Soon Captain Zgurpu and Sergeant Glokal were seated on either side of him, goblets in their hands. Wordlessly, the three watched as the last slaves in the line passed by them. While Awidan was pleased with the merchandise, he was determined to pay as little for the slaves as he possibly could. What folly it would be to throw money away to these animals! He might as well toss good coin to pigs!

The shakh put on his most doleful face and shook his head sadly. "Captain Zgurpu and Sergeant Glokal, I want to give you a fair price for these slaves, but unfortunately many of them are woefully flawed."

"What!" Captain Zgurpu's mouth dropped open and his brutish face registered disbelief. "Excellency, perhaps I am not hearing you correctly..."

Coughing, Shakh Awidan fumbled with the embossed leather pouch at his belt. Finally he drew out a fine linen handkerchief, embroidered with his monogram at the corner, and held it up to his mouth. Taking in a deep wheezing breath, he held his throat and coughed into the handkerchief. Dubiously the two uruks watched him as he returned the cloth to his pouch and rested a trembling hand to his lap. Finally he spoke. "Gentlemen, you have heard me correctly. While many of the women and children are satisfactory, I fear there are far more thorns and weeds than flowers. Very few of them fit the standards of beauty that are held in the South and East. Their hands and feet are far too large! Their ankles resemble the trunks of trees! And there are others whose skins are wrinkled and leathery from being in the sun for too many years. Then there are the matrons who are old and homely. Few men want to purchase females whose intimate parts are as large as a cow's!"

"This is impossible!" Captain Zgurpu bellowed as he gripped the arm of his chair. "This is the best lot of slaves which I have seen in years!" Not a word of what the bloody cheat had said was true! It was all the two uruks could do to hold their tempers and keep from reverting to their bestial natures.

"My good lads, I see with the trained eye of a slave trader," Awidan interrupted as he glanced up the road. The guards had turned the line of slaves around and were parading them back towards the shakh's tent. "I am sorely disappointed with these slaves." He shook his head sadly as his gaze fell on Breguswith. The madwoman was jabbering to herself as she cradled a wad of cloth in her arms. Occasionally she kissed the bundle and smiled and cooed, as though there were something alive inside. "What is wrong with that woman?" the shakh demanded. "I noticed her earlier."

"Of course, he would see the mad one," Zgurpu thought, cursing the woman. "Excellency, her brat just died not too long ago and she is not over it yet," he grumbled. "Give her some time. She'll be good as new." The Captain tried his best to dismiss Breguswith's obvious madness, but he could tell the shakh did not believe him. All it would take would be a few insane prisoners like Breguswith to drive the price down.

"Captain Zgurpu, while the woman might have been sound when she was captured, she certainly is not now. Such merchandise is virtually worthless." Awidan took a sip of wine and let out a sighing breath. "My employers' business establishment has many expenses besides the initial price when we buy slaves captured by the army. Every year, we must pay a heavy tax to the Lord of Mordor for the privilege of selling and buying slaves within His domain. We do not begrudge Him, however; we are very grateful for this opportunity. Then we have to feed and clothe the slaves and tend to any injuries before we sell them. When the slaves are sold on the block or in a private transaction anywhere in the Lord's fiefdoms, we must pay a certain percentage of the selling price to the highly esteemed Lord of Mordor. After all this, it is difficult to make a profit." The shakh hated to pay out one copper coin in expenses, but he would not say that to the uruks, lest they report him. "Then there are the records..."

"Shakh, we want our pay and we want it now!" Captain Zgurpu demanded, interrupting the shakh's lengthy dissertation as both he and Glokal stood up. He had grown weary of the old man's constant hedging. "No more dickering, no more bargaining. We have our orders and we know you have an agreement with the Higher Ups to pay us a fair market price for all that we bring you. Would you pinch pennies and cheat us poor lads?"

"I am a fair man, and I will do the best I can for you. Since all of you brave lads have sacrificed so much, serving heroically courageously on so many fields for the honor and glory of Mordor, I will be generous with you and give you more than these slaves are worth." Exhaling heavily, Shakh Awidan mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and handed his now empty goblet to Hunethon. "Bring me my coin chest!" he ordered the two young men, and soon they had returned with a large, ornately decorated casket carried between them. After they had placed the chest on the ground before the shakh, they lifted the lid, bowed, and stepped back. 

"I deeply regret that this is all that I can give you." Shakh Awidan pulled out two small bags of silver coins from the chest and handed them to Captain Zgurpu. 

"Is this all?" Captain Zgurpu snarled, testing the weight of the bags in his hands. Glokal growled deep in his throat, his fingertips skimming over the hilt of his sword.

"Ah, my good stout-hearted lads, good fellows both of you, perhaps I can give you a bit more. You drive a hard bargain!" Awidan sighed plaintively as he withdrew another bag of coins from the box. "Now that is my final offer! Take it or leave it!"

"The Shakh is most generous." Captain Zgurpu grinned as he took the bag and put it in his pack. He was convinced that he had intimidated the old cheat into giving them more money. 

Though he tried to hide it from the uruks, the slave dealer was quite pleased with himself, for the orcs had settled for far less than he would have paid. He laughed at them in his thoughts. "If they had wished to bargain for the next hour or so, they might have worn even me down, and I would have given them much more than I did! I am most happy. All the women and maids will bring a good price when they are sold. Most will have exquisite appeal to any lord who is in the market for a bed mate. As for the mad one - perhaps a brothel, or the orc breeding pits; she needs no mind for that. Of course, I underrated the slaves' value most drastically. The uruks are ignorant and know little. If only they bring me more slaves as comely as this lot, I will be satisfied!" 

Shakh Awidan coughed again and cleared his throat. "Now, Captain Zgurpu and Sergeant Glokal, my men will take these slaves off your hands. My energy is drained and I must go to my bed. You know my constitution is not stout! It is the climate, I say. Most foul! And the rain has brought swelling and pain to my joints. Foul weather, foul weather, no good for any! But what am I to do? A merchant must do as best he can. I must rest and have these two excuses for slaves prepare hot cloths and place hot poultices upon my poor bones. Only then can I have some relief!"

"Aye, Shakh," nodded the Captain, glad that at last the deal had been concluded. "Now we must be about making camp for the night now, for we will be marching out before dawn. Farewell until we meet again." After saluting, Captain Zgurpu and the Sergeant turned to lead their column away. 

When the uruks had gone, a party of large, swarthy men came to herd the captives to their shelter for the night. "Move along, move along!" the men urged. "If you quicken your pace, maybe there shall be treats for you tonight."

Ahead in the distance, the captives could see the outlines of pens, which were nothing more than rough wooden boards firmly nailed to stout posts driven into the ground. Once swaggering guards in mail and boiled leather, their metal shod feet grinding on the dusty ground, had patrolled among the pens. They had occasionally looked between the slatted boards to jeer and gawk at the prisoners inside. After the great battles in the South, prisoners had been taken here and then housed in these pens before they were sent East to labor and die in the mines of the Mountains of Shadow and Ash. Those fortunate ones, and they were few, had been employed on the great slave farms in Nurn where some survivors even yet were moved in great gangs to tend the gardens of Sauron. Now the slave pens waited for the a different crop of captives: men, women and children captured in the war in the North.

Untied at last, the captives were given their evening meal. After so many days of dry orc bread and stringy meat, they were amazed as they were handed fresh bread and bowls of soup. The treats, too, were there as promised: candied fruits of strange and unknown kinds. After the captives had finished eating, the swarthy men herded them inside the constraining slats of the pens.

So began the first and only night that most of the captives would ever spend in Minas Tirith, and the iron grip of slavery slowly continued to tighten its fingers over their bodies and souls.


	5. Red Fell the Dew Like Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

Suddenly Elfhild was plunged into the stifling darkness of the slave pen. A surge of instinctive terror gripped her mind and she groped blindly ahead, her hands brushing against the back of the person in front of her. A flood of women and children streamed all around her, and the closeness of the other captives was suffocating. From all directions came hushed voices, sobs and the frightened cries of disoriented women calling to their children and relatives. Her eyes adjusting now to the dim light, Elfhild took her sister's hand and struggled out of the throng. She pulled Elffled to a corner near the entrance to the pen, a spot that had been neglected by the crowd. Frightened and confused, the two girls shrank against the wall, trying to keep out of the way.

As the last captive stepped inside the wooden pen, the door shut with a heavy thud. A key was heard turning in the lock, an evil doom manifesting itself in the form of sound. The swarthy men walked away, sauntering back towards their pavilions. Though the uncertainty of their new surroundings had frightened many of the women and children, it was not long ere eyes well-adjusted to darkness were able to descry their surroundings. The filtered glow of the torches about the camp drifted in through the horizontal slats, brightening the gloom a little. 

Though a prison, the pen did have its comforts. The journey had been a long one and for many days the captives had naught but the cold ground for a bed and only the clouds above for a roof. Fresh straw was spread out upon the well-packed dirt, its sweet scent bringing to mind taunting reminders of home and brazier. Wonder struck Elfhild's mind – "Where upon all of Middengeard do fields grow freely and not wilt in darkness and in drought? And straw so early! Why, the wheat harvest would not be for two more months yet in Rohan..." – but the thought quickly flitted away and soon was forgotten.

The crowded pen was filled with a stir of movement and a hum of soft noise as women comforted each other and their children. At last, after almost a month, many were reunited with friends and kin who had been placed in different troops. Captivity had been cruel and the journey hard, especially for babies, small children and the elderly. Breguswith was not the only woman who grieved for a child who had perished.

Two figures moved towards the twins, and soon the girls were able to see their aunt Leofgifu and seven-year-old cousin Hunig. Their sad faces were softly illuminated by the torchlight which shone through the slats of the wooden prison. Hunig clung to her mother's skirt, hiding from the world in the soiled and tattered material. Soon mother and daughter were seated upon the straw beside Elfhild and Elffled. A heavy cloud of sorrow hung above them, ready to burst into a shower of salty tears.

"Mamma, did F-Father fight here?" Hunig asked tremulously.

"Yes, Hunig," Leofgifu replied solemnly. The words were spoken with a sense of finality that was so grim and dismal that their meaning seemed almost surreal.

"Is... is he coming back?"

Oh Gods. What should she tell her daughter? Should she fill her innocent mind with false hopes, or tell her the brutal truth that her father might be dead?

"I do not know," Leofgifu replied honestly.

"Father will come back," Hunig proclaimed defensively. Then her face fell and her lips trembled. "But we will not be at home! How will he ever find us?"

Leofgifu said nothing, instead squeezing her daughter in a desperate embrace. The lack of response troubled Hunig greatly, for she was accustomed to her mother reassuring her and telling her that everything would be all right. Tears began to slide down Hunig's cheeks.

Leofgifu sighed as she stroked her daughter's hair, her fingers skimming over the knots in those unruly tresses. The little girl's tear-filled blue eyes looked up to her for comfort and protection. Unfortunately, these were two things which Leofgifu could not give. Before the war, she had imagined a wonderful future for her daughter, one filled with happiness and blessings, a good husband and a loving family. Now the little girl's future depended upon the kindness of the one who bought her. What a horrible fate for a child to grow up in slavery!

A dark fear filled her heart with terror, a fear which had grown even stronger after Sergeant Utana's grim speech. What if the slave traders separated them? There would be no way that Leofgifu could protect her daughter then! Surely the slavers would not be so cruel as to tear a child so young from her mother's arms! Oh, how she prayed that they would both be bought by a kind person! It was their only hope. Leofgifu knew that she was no beauty, but she was a hard worker, and Hunig would follow in her footsteps. Together they could cook, clean, sew, weave, garden, take care of children, and do other such work around the house. Surely these skills would be desirable to the Easterlings and Southrons.

Her glance fell upon Elfhild and Elffled, who fidgeted nervously, their discomfort and worry obvious. They, too, wondered if their uncle were alive or dead. Not only did Leofgifu have to worry about Hunig's safety, but also that of her two nieces. "They have blossomed into such lovely young ladies," Leofgifu thought reflectively as she studied the identical oval faces, the slightly rounded noses, the soft, full lips, the delicately pointed chins. If only she had been that pretty when she was their age!

Unfortunately, the enemy soldiers also noticed the beauty of the twin sisters and gawked at them with hungry, lecherous eyes. It was only natural that the Southrons and Easterlings, so used to the dark-tressed, tawny beauties of their own lands, would consider two such golden-haired maidens as unique and exotic. Though the thought made her mind recoil with shame and disgust, perhaps the twins were lucky. What man would not desire two charming, comely girls who were almost identical in appearance? If he had any brains inside his skull, he would cherish these two prizes and shower them with love and affection. Yes, their beauty assured them a future of comfort and wealth, a future which Leofgifu knew she would never have.

Perhaps she should encourage the girls to be friendlier to their captors? When the Khandian cavalrymen had been guarding the prisoners, many of the maids had flirted with the men and were rewarded with delicious candies, exotic music, and tales from faraway lands. Though the older women, Leofgifu included, thought that such outrageous behavior was scandalous, not to mention traitorous, no harm had come of it. Perhaps some of those men would come back and buy the pretty maids who had caught their fancy. Surely a master who was in love with his slave would be kinder than one who was not.

Yes, perhaps she should advise Elfhild and Elffled to try to win the hearts of their new guards. The captives had just been turned over to new masters, and perhaps among these men were a few decent fellows whose hearts were brimming over with kindness and compassion... No, no, encouraging the girls to fawn over some Easterling or Southron seemed wrong. Yet counseling the girls to remain defiant and hostile towards their enemies, as some women did, was utterly foolish.

Perhaps she should tell them to treat the men with the same respect and courtesy that they would have shown to the Riders of the Mark? Yes, yes... she could advise the girls to treat the men as their betters and carry themselves with the dignity that befitted proper young ladies of Rohan. Leofgifu almost chuckled in wry amusement. She could already hear Elfhild's outraged protests and adamant oaths that she would never, ever treat an enemy like a man of her own land... Oh, what was the right thing to do in a situation like this? 

Ever since Athelthryth's death, Leofgifu had tried to be as a mother to the twins, giving them guidance and advice. Yet she felt woefully inadequate. How did one make the right choices in a situation as horrible as war? How did one obtain such wisdom, such knowledge? She wished she could protect the girls from all harm, but what protection could she offer, really, either to the twins or to her own daughter? What comfort could she give them, save for false words of hope which rang empty and hollow? She was about as helpless as the frailest of the captive children.

If only Athelthryth were still alive! Surely she would know what to do. Back in the Mark, whenever Leofgifu was troubled, she would always turn to her friend for advice. Being around Athelthryth made her feel better and helped her to put things into perspective. "Sometimes you just need a friend, but more importantly you need to be a friend to yourself," she had always said whenever Leofgifu was wallowing in self-pity and castigating herself for some trivial mistake. Unfortunately, Leofgifu's other friends were in different troops, and she had no one in whom she could confide her fears and uncertainties. She did not know Waerburh very well; Breguswith had been driven insane; and Goldwyn did not care for her family. 

A faint mumble from Hunig brought Leofgifu's attention back to her daughter, who had fallen asleep with her cheek leaning against her bosom. Bending her face down, she kissed the girl on the top of the head and then gently eased her back on the straw. Hunig stirred long enough to complain about the unexpected movement, but was asleep once again the moment her head hit the straw. "The march always exhausts her," Leofgifu remarked softly as she drew her cloak over the slumbering girl.

Lost in their own thoughts, the sisters nodded in silent agreement. All around them, the din of the captives had subsided into a dull drone of soft-spoken voices. The weariness of the day had descended upon Leofgifu and her two nieces, just as it had upon Hunig. Elffled clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle a huge yawn. Suddenly Elfhild burst out into tears.

"What is the matter, dear?" Leofgifu asked, concern in her soft voice, as she reached her hand out and gently clasped Elfhild's shoulder.

"Yes, Elfhild, what is wrong?" urgently inquired a worried Elffled.

"Father and Eadfrid are dead!" Elfhild wailed as she threw herself into her aunt's arms. "They fell together on these fields!"

Elffled felt her heart well over with sorrow, for her sister's grief was her own. Just a few months ago, their father and brother had been alive and well, and now they were dead, their bones scattered among those of both comrade and enemy. Overcome by sadness, she began to weep softly.

"How do you know that they were slain, Elfhild?" Attempting to comfort her niece, Leofgifu rubbed her hands up and down the sobbing girl's back. "There is no way we have of knowing their fate, so let us assume that they survived the battle. Mayhap they now fight the enemy in distant lands, or perhaps the survivors of the war have taken shelter in the mountains."

Elfhild violently shook her head in objection and pulled away from her aunt. Her bleary eyes pleaded with hers for understanding. "No, no, they were slain by the orcs! I know... I saw... his skull... my - my father's..." Whimpering, she wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock back and forth.

"Oh, Elfhild, the sight of all the bones has left you distraught!" Leofgifu tried to keep the alarm out of her voice. Elfhild was talking strangely, as though she were delusional! "That could have been anyone's skull. Every man, rich or poor, looks the same when he is dead."

Elffled looked between her aunt and sister. Her aunt was correct; the skull could have belonged to any man who was unlucky enough to have been decapitated in the heat of battle. Yet those hollow eyes had called out to her as they had to her sister, pleading with her to cast her gaze upon all that was left of a man once hale and strong. Emanating from the skull itself and the space around it was a peculiar sense of familiarity which made her feel somehow comforted, though achingly sad. Perhaps the whole incident had only been a macabre fantasy created by their grief-stricken imaginations? Oh, Elffled prayed that this was so, for if it were not, then that meant their father was truly dead! 

"No, it was Father's skull!" Elfhild proclaimed loudly, much to Leofgifu's dismay, for several women turned to look at them. "I - I do not know how I know, but I just do..." Her voice lowered to a whisper and her eyes glazed over. "I - I think the skull itself told me..." Burying her face in her hands, she burst out into another fit of weeping.

"Oh dear..." Leofgifu wondered if the girl was going mad. The sight of the gruesome battlefield alone was enough to drive anyone insane, and Elfhild had endured so much anguish and sorrow as it was. It was not easy for a young girl to see her mother murdered before her eyes, and to know not whether to mourn for her father and brother, or to pray for their safety. Leofgifu reached out a somewhat tentative hand and lightly placed it upon Elfhild's shoulder. "Skulls do not talk, Elfhild... Perhaps you should lie down and try to forget the horrors that you have seen. Take solace in sleep. Tomorrow we leave this dreadful place."

"Yes, Aunt. I... I think I will lie down... After all, tomorrow's journey will be a long one..." Elfhild knew that it was useless to try to convince her aunt of what she knew was true. No one would ever understand the silent exchange that had passed between her and the skull, except perhaps her sister. For one, they would think the skull itself had opened up its bony jaws and spoken, which would indeed be quite an unbelievable tale, especially since none of the other captives had witnessed the incident. No, she had just looked into those empty eye sockets and that was when she _knew_. She could not explain what had happened, only accept it.  

The two girls kissed their aunt and wished her good-night. Leofgifu lay down beside her resting daughter, and then rolled over on her side. Sleep did not come easily to the three. The field of death and carnage continued to haunt their thoughts. Leofgifu worried about the twins, especially Elfhild, who was acting most bizarrely. Back in the Mark, the girl had sometimes spent hours meditating in the family graveyard, but she had never claimed that she had talked with ghosts. It was not that Leofgifu did not believe in the supernatural, for indeed she did. However, she had seen Breguswith's slow descent into madness, and she worried for the sake of her troubled niece. She even feared that the same fate might happen to her. 

In the Mark, poor souls such as Breguswith would have been pitied, but, alas, they were no longer in the fair land of Rohan. Leofgifu dreaded to think of what would eventually happen to that poor woman once the captives reached Mordor. The merciless fiends would feel no pity in their black hearts for a distraught, insensible woman, unless they could put her to some vile or unpleasant use. Leofgifu shuddered to think of what it might be.

The gruesome sights she had seen that day were troubling enough; thoughts of the future would only plunge her further into despair. Leofgifu refused to think any more about what might happen in the days to come. The ghastly battlefield with its stark reminders of death and defeat had brought woe enough.


	6. The Unquiet Field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

The other members of Elfhild and Elffled's troop were scattered about the pen, each seeking out the company of old friends and relatives. Though their hearts were heavy with sorrow, the captives were glad for this rare time when all of them were assembled together and not divided into troops of ten. None knew how long they would stay near the sad city of Minas Tirith or what would befall them after they left. It might be many long days ere they would be reunited again with their kindred in other troops, or perhaps after this night they would be separated forever.

Waerburh mourned with her sisters, cursing all the folk of the Dark Lands in one breath and sobbing in the next. Breguswith, who had been led away by her relatives, now proudly showed the women the dirty bundle of rags which she thought was her dead baby. Shocked by her descent into madness, her family was torn between telling her the truth and not having the heart to do so. They decided among themselves that it was kinder simply to pat her on the back and murmur sympathetically.

If an opportunity presented itself before breakfast the next morning, Elfhild and Elffled planned to find some of their old friends from the village and inquire of them as to how they had fared upon this miserable journey. Tonight, however, they had spent with their aunt and cousin, suffering and grieving with one another. Leofgifu and Hunig were asleep now, but slumber had retreated far from the twins, and they were left to toss and turn upon the straw.

Goldwyn was talking quietly with her own kinswomen, and together they were trying to comfort her three sons. Fritha, the youngest, cried in his mother's arms, and tears streamed down the face of Frumgár. The two younger boys were glad for the attention from the women, but Fródwine, the eldest, felt he was far too old to be fussed over by females. The boy just wanted to be left alone to contemplate the doleful sights that he had seen on the ghastly fields. Not holding much hope that his father had survived, he wondered if his sire had been reduced now to only a skeleton, condemned to ignoble anonymity as all the rest. Perhaps he and the other captives had passed the pile of bones which contained his remains, scattered randomly after being picked over by carrion-birds and other scavengers. And what of his grandfather? Did he and the bones of his old gray horse lie upon the field as well?

The boy had seen terrible sights before but nothing which would compare to the silent horrors of the old battlefield. He remembered the time that a stray dog had attacked a litter of kittens on the family farm. Before his father was able to drive away the dog, the mongrel had killed one of the kittens. Another had fled to the nearby woods. Two days later, Fródwine found the missing kitten. The wounds upon its frail, quivering body had become infested by sickening white maggots which squirmed and writhed. Metallic blue and green flies buzzed about the kitten, feeding from the gashes and laying eggs in the lacerated flesh. The stench of decay had been nauseating, and mercifully, Fródwine's father had ended the small creature's suffering.

Fródwine tried to drive the memories of that unpleasant day from his mind, but still he could smell that horrible stench. Mingling with the recollection of those ghastly, maggot-infested wounds were the gruesome sights he had seen upon the battlefield. Had his father suffered the same way with vile insects swarming about his injuries? Fródwine's stomach lurched at the grim thought and a tortured look crossed his pale face. That was hardly the glorious warrior's death spoken of in lore and legend. No, it was something from some hell-spawned nightmare, a fever dream gendered by illness and delirium.

He felt his mother's eyes upon him, and he felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny. "Son, even at this moment, your father drinks mead in the hallowed halls of heroes, surrounded by other brave men who died defending their country." She spoke in that too-brave voice that he abhorred. "He died as an honorable man, a warrior. We can all think upon the memory of his unswerving valor with pride." He knew that his beautiful mother was only trying to bolster their spirits, but somehow he found her comment irritating. 

"Mother, he is still dead, and we are left here." Goldwyn gave him a look which he could not quite fathom, but he could see the hurt in her eyes. The other women gasped in shocked surprise and then went back to a low, buzzing murmur among themselves, much like the maggot flies, he thought. Why could they not leave him in peace?

Before that terrible spring, war had only been a dramatic adventure in songs and tales told by fathers and grandfathers to audiences of wide-eyed children. Though the East Emnet had been raided many times by orcs from across the Anduin and the Westfold by Dunlendings and goblin-men from Isengard, the years prior to 3019 were filled with an uneasy peace in central and southern Rohan. Over a hundred years had passed since the Rohirrim had gone forth with swords, shields and spears against an invading force in their land or in that of their ally Gondor.

There was no threat in the homeland, save for political unrest during the reign of King Fengel, and the disquiet stirred up by the machinations of Gríma Wormtongue. It had been over a hundred and fifty years since any orcs had been seen lurking in the White Mountains, for they had all been killed or driven away during the reign of King Folca. In the sheltered fields and hills of the Eastfold the folk of Grenefeld had dwelt, protected to the east and south by the realm of Gondor; in the north by the swamps of the Entwash.

Like so many other boys and young men, Fródwine had regarded battle as naught but an excuse for grand adventure and sport. In song and lay, small bands of brave knights and heroes fought in battles against great hordes of innumerable enemies. Though the fight often seemed hopeless, somehow the day was always saved and most of the victorious warriors would come back home to tell tales of their brave deeds. Alas, not always does the reality of war mimic the glorious perception that many have of it! A hint of this grim enlightenment was starting to dawn upon young Fródwine and his brother Frumgár. At the tender age of only five, Fritha was still too young to understand fully.

At last eyes sore and stinging from the salt of many tears grew heavy, and limbs weary from marching and hearts burdened with grief ached for rest. The muted buzzing of many conversations faded to a soft lull as many of the captives began to lay down their weary heads and lose themselves in slumber. Tired bodies nestled into the comfortable straw, the sweet scent bringing a slight sense of peace to troubled minds.

Elffled lay on her side facing away from her sister, her eyes staring into the somber gloom. Yet she did not see the dim forms of her sleeping aunt and cousin illuminated by the slanted stripes of light and shadow cast by the wooden slats of the slave pen. Instead she saw the stark plain of death where the Battle of Pelennor Fields had been fought. Had this been the final battle that had been waged between the noble West and the savage East, or had there been more? The Sergeant's words had been so painfully vague, but one thing was for certain: the forces of the Dark Land had been victorious that fateful day three months prior.

Elffled's hand clenched the straw. Angry tears dotted her eyes. She wondered why – why did there have to be wars and raids; why did the folk of the Dark Land hate the folk of Rohan and Gondor? There had always been fear, strife and hatred between West and East and she knew little of its roots. It was just there; a part of life that was never questioned. She wondered how this horrible enmity began. Why could there not be peace? Why did everything have to be settled by war and strife?

Angry and bitter, she cursed the Oath of Eorl, for if it had never been sworn, then her father and brother never would have ridden away to alien fields, only to die for a crumbling realm. True, Gondor had given her ancestors the land of Calenardhon, but the oath between Eorl and King Cirion had been sworn nearly five centuries before. Why did Rohan have to remain loyal to a land filled with arrogant fops who thought they were better than everyone else? Perhaps if her country had not been so quick to help Gondor, the Dark Lord would have left them alone. If she were the king, she would have made any compromise and paid any tribute to keep her people out of war. But she was only a peasant girl, and knew little about ruling a country.

The Riders of the Mark had given their all, fighting bravely and gallantly against a foe far greater than they. Ever loyal and true, they had fulfilled their oath once again and had come to the aid of their old ally. They had willingly sacrificed themselves in the hopes that the people of the West would continue to dwell in freedom in the lands that they loved. Alas, they had lost, and all fears had come to pass.

Elffled heard the words of the old song, as though her father were singing them in his deep, rich voice, though this time it was filled with an intense sadness...

_The sun has gone down in the West in the hills over shadow._

_Where now the horse and the rider?_

Dead, all dead.

_Where is the horn that was blowing?_

Silenced forever, save in the ghostly echoes of time.

_Where is the helm and the halberk, and the bright hair flowing?_

Left to rust upon the field and rot in the ground.

No hand would pluck the harpstring, for fingers now were bone; no more crops would be planted in the spring nor would they be harvested in the autumn. All had passed like rain on the mountain, like wind in the meadow. Indeed the days had gone down in the West and now there was naught but the Shadow. 

Elffled cried herself to sleep.

Later that night, her sister Elfhild awoke from a dark dream which had filled her heart with a great sense of melancholy. Her eyes staring into the darkness, her sluggish mind reflected upon the gloomy visions which she had imagined... Beneath the softly glowing moon, she walked upon the dew-soaked ground, her footfalls making only a soft patting in the stillness of the night. She wandered with little heed of her path, as though she were bewitched by some spell, enchanted by a mysterious lure which invited her to come ever nearer.

Weaving through the wild patterns of bones strewn upon the ground, her graceful, solemn steps carried her to the column of skulls. They looked down at her, their cavernous eyes friendly, their lips parted in everlasting grins. She felt completely at ease with them; no dark fear or dread did they impart to her. How strange it was that, she, one of the living, now communed with the dead in unspoken half-thoughts of contemplation!

The skulls glowed softly, the moonlight reflecting off polished ivory. A cloud fleeing away from the moon caused the field to be bathed in a radiant wash of silver. A gentle breeze stirred the grasses which had sprung up around the bones, causing the thin blades to dance and sway. The invisible current picked up tassels of golden hair, once worn proudly in braids or loose about the shoulders, and the tangled strands brushed softly against the poles upon which they now hung.

The breeze chilled her and she trembled slightly. She stood there for a moment, solemn and still as a barrow-marker. Slowly, gentle fingers reached up and stroked cool, porous bone where once a weathered cheek had been. She looked into the hollow caverns and imagined her father's kind blue eyes. Sighing wistfully, she gazed into those haunted, tortured pools of shadow and saw the eternity that someday she would know. The darkness of the grave, the oblivion of eternal slumber...

Elfhild lay upon her side, peering out at her dim surroundings through the slats, her long, slender callused fingers resting atop the rough board nearest to her. Her body and spirit were weary and cried out for solace, but yet her mind clung tenaciously to wakefulness. She stared out into the night until her eyes glazed over and her vision was filled with the strange muted colors one sees in the darkness, shades for which the conscious mind can find no name. Dulled both by physical and emotional exhaustion, her mind wandered aimlessly and she had difficulty directing her thoughts. They kept flitting away from her like butterflies in a meadow filled with wildflowers. Yet she did not mind. Reality itself seemed to slow down to accommodate her lassitude. She blinked several times, her eyelids slowly creeping over her eyes like sodden sheets being dragged over rough ground.

A mist from the River had gathered and the night was gray and foggy. Elfhild's heart swelled with sorrow and a strange sudden yearning. So intense were these feelings that she feared that her chest would burst asunder if she did not find relief quickly. Her hands clenched the straw in addled frustration. How she longed to break free of this cage! Then she could walk among the white mounds, searching for her father's skeletal body so that she might join his head to the bony shoulders.

"I am going mad," she mused, "mad like poor Breguswith." 

But though the dream was over, her morbid thoughts would not relent. What did she have to lose, save more tears? She let her wild fancies take her sleepy mind where they wished and soon she became lost in her own strange, disjointed imaginings. Images and thoughts - some elaborate and complex, others simple or absurd - passed lazily in and out of her consciousness like minnows in a stream. Then in a fleeting instant, they vanished, and she drifted back into lethargic wakefulness. Random snatches of imaginary dialogue flitted in and out of her mind, nonsensical words and phrases which soon faded into oblivion, never to be remembered again.

She gazed into the swirling fog, her mind caught in the strange realm between wakefulness and dream. The mists deepened upon the field, an ethereal smoke lingering over a fire which still smoldered. Though the battle had been fought three months before, there had been too much strife for there ever to be peace again. Malice and hatred bubbled up to the surface like the blood which once stained the grass red and lingered in murky sanguine puddles. The very ground had been tainted by war, the veil between the two worlds brutally tattered by sword, knife and arrow.

The east wind began to moan. The air became colder. Across the field, spots of light appeared just beneath the ground. Glimmering with a silvery radiance as though they were glowworms, the pieces edged closer together. Finally they joined, the metal becoming weapons and mail, an armory forged without a maker. Then borne upon a unspoken groan, pale whisps rose from the ground, taking form until they became visible. Rising from piles of bones, skeletal horses stood to their feet, their gaunt frames now covered with phosphorescent flesh. The phantom riders leapt to their horses' backs, and, raising their spears, they formed into a line and thundered away.

And Elfhild beheld her father riding upon Thunorlic, and her brother Eadfrid rode beside him. How fearsome they looked, riding with the spectral host! Their gleaming eyes turned towards her, but she was not afraid. She returned their smiles and watched in awe as they rode swiftly away.

Racing across the plain, the phantom cavalry, relentless and unyielding, galloped to meet their enemies. With a voice terrible and deadly, they cried out in fury as they drove into a foe as dead as they. Once again, the Battle of Pelennor Fields raged, with the spirits of the slain enacting their last brutal moments among the world of the living.

Forcing back the Southern cavalrymen, the wan shades found that a great mass of uruks lay beyond the enemy horsemen. Elfhild watched in cold horror as a halberd caught her father's shoulder and dragged him from his horse. Screaming out his rage, Eadfrid leapt from his horse and slashed at the brutes with his sword. Soon he, too, was forced to the ground. The uruks' bloodlust was high, but there was little time to torture their prey. Uttering curses and blasphemies, they bludgeoned their prisoners with the blunt ends of their weapons and then mutilated the wounded men's faces, arms and legs with the saw-like blades. Eager to finish the bloody work and win more laurels for themselves, their commander ordered them to strike the killing blow. With great glee, the fiends slowly sawed off both men's heads, taking delight in the slow, cruel execution.

The mist from the Anduin rose up, obscuring the gristly scene in a pallid shroud of swirling vapors. When the fog had cleared, everything was as it had been before: the rough wooden slats of the slave pen, the dark form of a passing guard, the dim light of the camp. Yet Elfhild continued to stare out into the darkness. She had seen both of her parents murdered before her eyes. One had been in the flesh, the other in a vision, but that did not make the pain any less. She had lost everything and everyone. What was left for her, daughter of the ruins?

There was a whisper in the wind, the faintest, softest sound, a gentle wail, perhaps, a rustle in the grass, and then nothing. Only emptiness and the night, cold and unrelenting...


	7. The Clerk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

When dawn came the next day, it seemed strange that there were no snarling orcs about to prod the captives into wakefulness. The brutes had been replaced by an assortment of tawny and swarthy men who had the distinctive look of the "East" about them. Clad in the finest of robes, the men were obviously very wealthy, perhaps rich merchants or even nobles. Upon their heads were the strange headdresses of the men of the South and East: bulbous hats that were shaped like onions and decorated with all manners of feathers and jewels; and headdresses created of long cloths draped over the head and secured by a length of cord about the crown.

Walking leisurely, the men conversed among themselves as they sauntered between the rows of slave pens and appraised the captives. Occasionally the women could hear snatches of their conversations, spoken in some unknown Eastern or Southern dialect. None of the men seemed in any haste to move along out of the compound and were content to stroll about and look at the women.

"Who do you suppose they are?" Elfhild whispered to her aunt. 

"I dread to think who they might be," Leofgifu replied, "but from the gleam in their eyes, they do not mean us any good!"

"My guess is they are slave buyers from the barbarian lands," a woman nearby hissed. "You can be sure of one thing - if they see any woman they fancy, they will buy her to appease their perverse lusts!"

"Oh!" Elfhild shuddered as she put her hand up to her mouth.

The group of wealthy men parted as a line of Gondorian slave men and their heavily armed guards turned the corner. Moving down the lane between the pens, the procession halted midway between them. Two horse carts, each led by a young slave man, rolled into view behind them. Both carts held a huge kettle; a smaller tub of drinking water; baskets piled with loaves of bread; and wooden crates filled with eating utensils. 

"Wenches, time for your breakfasts," one of the guards informed them in a thickly accented voice. "Come out one by one and line up in two orderly rows! No arguing or bickering now," he added. "There is plenty of food for all!" As the women and children passed by the cart designated to their line, they were each given a bowl of spicy smelling stew, a section of flatbread, and a cup of water.

After the prisoners had been fed, the guards tied the women's hands behind their backs and herded them in the direction of the tent city which lay below the ruined walls of Minas Tirith. The tents of brightly dyed wool painted the ravished landscape with an unexpected burst of color and gave the small city an almost festive air. Succulent meats grilled on small outdoor braziers perfumed the air with their spicy scents. The sounds of many voices all articulated in unknown tongues and accents mingled together and created a strange, though not unpleasant, babble. As they rode by on their prancing, spirited steeds, the hot-blooded Southrons and Easterlings cast flashing dark eyes upon the captives, shamelessly ravishing them with fiery glances. The sights, the sounds, the smells coming upon them in quick succession disoriented the captives, and their dazed eyes looked fearfully about them.

As the prisoners drew closer to a large green pavilion, they could see the standards which flew atop the tent. There, flapping in the gentle morning breeze, was the standard of Nurn, a green banner which depicted a sheaf of yellow wheat gripped in an iron-clad fist. Flying above it was the banner of the Great Eye.

"Move along, move along, there is no time to gawk at everything you see," the guards ordered the captives, who gaped at the sights about them. Taken to the pavilion, the prisoners were ordered to halt outside. The tent flaps had been drawn back and held with ropes, giving clear view of the interior. Two large, fierce looking guards stood on either side, spears in hand, ready to bar the unauthorized from entering.

Frightened at this strange new sight, the children wondered what further terrors awaited them inside. Crying, they clung to their mother's skirts, begging them not to force them to enter the tent. Many of the mothers were no less apprehensive and feared that once their children were within the green tent, they might be taken away from them. After the hideous sights of the day before, most were convinced that their circumstances would only grow more dire.

From the outside, the tent seemed quite ordinary, except for its great size. Inside, though, it was a bustle of noisy activity with many people coming and going. A number of portable tables and desks had been set up in neat, orderly rows. The clerks who sat behind these desks were serious looking men who bent over their large books, busy with making neat entries in the records. Assistants scurried about, looking up references in books; delivering volumes and then returning them to the correct shelves; fetching new pens and other writing supplies; and delivering goblets of wine to sooth their masters' thirsts. Gondorian slave men, clad in rough tunics, stood along the side walls, ready at a moment's notice to answer the summons of any of the clerks.

Practically every table in the pavilion was occupied by cringing captives. Nervous maids blushed furiously as they felt the eyes of the guards and scribes appraising their bodies. Frightened children clung to their mothers while they waited on long, hard benches for a clerk's next question. After he had questioned a woman until she was at the point of tears, the scribe would motion to a slave to escort the brow-beaten woman outside.

The long line of captives slowly shuffled towards the green pavilion, their feet stirring up puffs of choking dust. In spite of the early hour, their thin, tattered clothing had already become saturated with sweat, and some of the weaker captives slumped in the line. All the trees had been cut down long before, and there was not the slightest shadow to break the merciless vision of the sun. Adding to their misery, the captives had been unprepared for the resurgence of the sunlight, and after two days of constant sun, they suffered intensely from sunburn.

Restless from their monotonous duty and sweltering in the growing heat of the day, the guards were irritable, their tempers quick to flare. Since a fight amongst themselves would earn the men a severe whipping, they took their hostility out on the prisoners. A scream would ring out as the tresses of the flogger suddenly wrapped around the bare ankles of a woman who had not stood straight enough to suit a guard's demands. All the captives could do to avoid further antagonizing the guards was to endure patiently and keep their children quiet and close beside them. None of the guards were above cuffing a small child who wandered too far away from his mother.

The slave column slowly moved forward until only one woman remained ahead of Elfhild and Elffled. The woman trembled as she looked apprehensively into the tent. "You are next," the guard told her gruffly. When she hesitated, he gave her a push which sent her stumbling into the tent. Frightened, the twins stepped forward, but the guard barred their way. "Pretty darlings, no need to be in such a haste! You will be allowed to go in when the scribe is available. For the time, you can stay here and keep me company," he chuckled as his face twisted in a sinister leer.

After another long wait, the guard moved behind them and untied their hands. "Now it is your turn, slave girls. Just follow the pretty boy who now approaches."

"Master, the scribe is ready for them now," the slave told the guard as he walked up to them and bowed his head. He was a pleasant-faced young man of eighteen, his dark hair clipped short, his well-built body lithe and wiry.

"What a handsome boy!" the guard exclaimed as he reached out and cupped the slave's clean-shaven chin in his hand. "Perhaps I will ask your master to let me borrow you for the night, and you can serve my dinner to me. What a delicious dessert you would make! You look like one who has been trained to please men." His voice was low and husky as he pulled the man closer and squeezed his buttocks.

"Whatever Master desires," the slave man replied dully, his body stiffening as though he had just endured a physical blow, not just one to his pride.

"Take these wenches in now, boy. We will talk later." The guard winked as he reluctantly slid his hand from the slave's muscular bottom.

"As Master wishes." The young man turned to the confused twins, who, in their country innocence, understand little of what had just transpired between the two men. "This way, please," he told the girls, his voice hard and bitter. Though his eyes were kept lowered, the gray orbs flashed with defiance and anger. "We are dirt under the masters' feet. Give them no trouble and you will be through here quickly, but if you balk at anything, you will soon feel their whips," he cautioned them in whispers as he directed the girls to two stools in front of a portable desk. Leaving them without another word, he joined the other slaves along the wall where he would wait until he was again called.

Across the table from the twins sat a tall, thin, clean-shaven man. He was young in years, but the frown that was perpetually etched upon his face made him appear older. He seemed disinterested in what he was doing, which at that moment was chewing on the end of a quill pen. He had dark hair, light gray eyes and fair skin, signifying that somewhere in his ancestry there was the likelihood of Gondorian blood.

"Let us commence," he began in a bored tone of voice as he dipped the point of the quill into the ink well. "You on the right," he pointed the pen at Elfhild, "what is your name?" He spoke in perfect Common Speech, untouched by any accent.

"Elfhild," she stated plainly. It seemed that all the men of Mordor with whom she had ever spoken wanted to know that same question.

With a neat hand, the young man made a few marks in a record book, and then recorded the same information in another volume. The girls watched the movement of his skilled hand with great curiosity. They had seldom seen anyone write, and so his motions were quite mysterious to them, an arcane art of which they knew nothing.

"The runes for your name, Elfhild." The clerk turned the book around and showed the page to the twins. "They are written in the language and runic script of Mordor."

"They are very pretty, sir," Elfhild murmured in awe as she stared at the series of straight, sharp marks and others which were accented with curls and loops. She did not know how to spell her name, not even in the runes of her own people.

"Oh, I wonder how mine shall look," Elffled exclaimed eagerly, her eyes studying the large volume.

"You will soon see." The clerk turned the book around to face him. "And your name is?" he asked as he motioned towards Elffled.

"Elffled, sir," she smiled softly.

"Twins, obviously," he remarked as he turned to the other volume and scribbled a few lines. "You are doing very well, girls... Sit quietly, please. Now this will take a few moments, for I must record all these details in several languages in two separate books."

The twins were silent as the clerk's pen rapidly moved across the paper, leaving behind an elaborate, highly embellished script that resembled fine lace. "The language of the Southern lands, its written text as beautiful as its sound," he remarked as though to himself. Turning the page, he looked back at them. "Scribing is not easy. You must learn many languages to become an expert. I studied for years before my professional talents were developed fully. You see all these books on my desk?" He gestured to a stack of volumes on his left. "I have been here since long before dawn, readying things for the day and organizing records. Many do not realize the importance of a scribe's duties, or the length of his labors."

"Sir, your work sounds very complicated and difficult," Elfhild offered politely as she folded her hands on her lap.

"Aye, the work is exhausting." He motioned to a passing slave to fetch him a goblet. Closing his eyes, the scribe tasted the liquid. "A very mellow wine with a rich, full-bodied flavor." Sipping from he goblet, he studied the girls for a few moments and then looked back down at the open page of his record book. Fascinated with the sight of their own names, both sisters let down their guard and eyed the clerk with friendly, inquisitive expressions. The clerk's profession intrigued them, for few in their village could even sign their own names.

"Now back to business." He dipped the pen in the inkwell. "From whence do you hail?"

"The Mark," Elfhild replied.

"I knew that," he chuckled softly. "Are you trying to be coy with me?" He flashed her a perfect smile of white, evenly spaced teeth. "Where were you born?"

"Grenefeld in the Eastfold," she clarified with a sigh. "Why must you ask these things?"

"We are required to keep an accurate record of every slave who is captured," he explained. "Nothing escapes the attention of the Tower, and the officials want to know the pertinent details about every man, woman and child in our keeping. This system is comparatively new, and I am told there was nothing like it in the old days." He noticed their look of alarm and smiled reassuringly. "Nothing to fret your lovely heads about. Just simply a matter of record keeping. Father's name?" he asked after taking another sip of wine.

"Eadbald," Elfhild replied, feeling defeated and confused. All of this was too much to take in at one time, and she wondered if their captors considered them as nothing more than animals whose pedigrees were thoroughly studied before they were selected for some particular use.

"How old are you?"

Elfhild lowered her head demurely, hiding a little smile. "I am sorry, sir, but we do not know how old we are." This was not true, of course, but she felt that this young clerk with his constant barrage of questions would strip them of all their secrets until their whole lives had been laid bare. 

Elffled looked at her sister questioningly. When she saw Elfhild's wink, she caught on to the game she was playing. The enemy did not have to know _everything_ about them, and they would divulge nothing except those details which they were absolutely compelled to give.

"You do not know how old you are?" He stared at them incredulously. "Stand up and let me take another look at you. I have seen enough slaves to be a fair judge of their age." His eyes narrowed as he looked at them appraisingly. "Hmmm..." he muttered, tapping a forefinger on the table. "You certainly are not children, but you each have a certain look in your eyes which is very innocent." He chuckled. "You have not lived long enough to have seen very much. Judging by that, I would estimate that you were both no more than thirteen years of age." He paused. "But you are very well developed - quite well developed in fact - to be so young." His eyes rested on Elfhild's firm, young breasts, and she bowed her head in shame.

"Ah, yes, you are both quite lovely," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "To be safe, I will put you down as sixteen years of age." Smiling to himself, he recorded that age in the volume and then looked at them again. "You may resume your seats. Do you know when you were born?"

"On Midsummer's Eve," Elfhild admitted, proud of her notable birthday.

"An auspicious date," he told them, his pen poised over the parchment. "Now to the next question. Which of you was born first? Some find such facts very important to know. Astrological charting, and that sort of thing. As I said, we need all pertinent information." His eyes crinkled in a smile.

"I was, sir," Elfhild replied softly, surprised by the question.

"Now a few more questions and we will be done." Sipping from the goblet of wine, he placed the pen back in its holder and leaned back in his chair. His eyes had darkened with a look that made them both feel uncomfortable, as though he could see through the material of their tattered dresses. His next remark stunned them. "You are flirting with me, and do try to deny it." His gray eyes sparkled with mischief.

"I do not familiarize myself with men of the enemy," Elfhild retorted coldly.

"Do you find me handsome?" he asked, turning his head so they could admire him from the side. Although neither girl would admit it, he was strikingly handsome in profile. His long, dark hair fell to either side, framing a face which possessed a broad forehead; an intelligent pair of gray eyes; a long, almost regal nose; and a set of full, sensuous lips. His face was almost too delicate, but was saved by the strong chin which jutted slightly forward. The clerk kept his pose for a few seconds longer, and then stabbed a long, graceful finger in their direction as he suddenly turned back to them. "Ah ha! I know that look you are giving me! Already you are infatuated!" His eyes searched theirs, and the girls turned away, blushing. "You see? That proves it. Of course, that does not surprise me in the least. Every maid falls under my spell sooner or later and attempts to use her wiles upon me, hoping for some small favor." The smile with which he graced them was supercilious and patronizing.

"In spite of all your admirable qualities, sir, I find you the vainest man I have ever met." Though she was indignant, Elffled was mildly amused, and she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. Elfhild shot her sister a stern frown, reprimanding her for her forwardness. In return, Elffled gave her a prim little smile as she folded her hands and placed them in her lap.

"Vain, but handsome nonetheless," he taunted good-naturedly. 

"As handsome as any fine gander who struts in the farm lot, announcing with his boastful honking his own self-importance," Elfhild rebuked him flippantly.

"What a pity it is, sir," Elffled added sweetly, "when the farm wife plucks all his fine feathers, chops off his graceful neck, and soon has him stewing in the pot."

"Saucy little things, are you not?" the scribe remarked devilishly. "I always fancied a maid with spark. If circumstances were different, I should very much like to take you both to supper tonight at some suitable inn. Perhaps we could stay a few days, but, alas," he closed his eyes and sighed regretfully, "such niceties of life are impossible in wartime."

Insulted at his implications, Elfhild shot back, "You are a shameless wretch to suggest such a thing! Even if it were not wartime, never would we consent to dine with one of the low barbarian races!"

"Barbarian races?" he asked, genuinely surprised, a look of hurt appearing in his eyes before he quickly camouflaged it with a smile. "So you think me a barbarian, and, of course, the noble maids of Rohan consider barbarians beneath their notice."

"Aye, sir, a barbarian indeed!" Elfhild retorted, her blue eyes glittering coldly. "Never would we waste our graceful charms upon such men. All we can promise to them is politeness and courtesy, but only if we find it reciprocated."

"Come now, your sister has charged me with vanity, but you are as guilty as I am, for you claim that you are charming. Not only charming, but as you say, 'gracefully charming." The scribe's eyes flashed with amusement and another emotion, which she suspected was desire. 

"Of course," Elfhild responded arrogantly. "We are daughters of Eorl."

"So that explains it all! Well, damn me!" The clerk burst out into great, heaving gales of laughter that he let go unchecked. "If I am the gander, then you two must be the geese! How amusing!" He laughed until his sides ached. "If a competition were ever held for modesty, the two of you would never be the winners! Still your impertinence is charming in its own way." He raised his goblet. "Now here is to the daughters of Eorl, who have proclaimed themselves as utterly charming while denying in the next breath that they are equally as vain!"

"The women of the West have a right to be," Elfhild retorted haughtily. "Mock not of that which you know nothing!"

Giggling at their exchange, Elffled glanced about and saw that others were staring at them. She quickly hid her amusement behind her hands.

"Such delightful hypocrisy! You have given me some welcome relief from the daily tedium." He tapped the tips of his fingers together. "If I were an artist, I would capture the proud little expression upon your face when you proclaimed, 'We are daughters of Eorl!' Surely you deserve some reward for amusing me. What shall it be?" He put his hand to his forehead. "Ah, I know! I will tell you my name, which I am not required to divulge." Pressing his hand against his chest, he bowed from the waist. "Let me introduce myself. I am Garavegion of the City of Turkûrzgoi, Nurn, where my father is a man of no little importance. You might note that while my name is Sindarin, I am no Elf, but merely a man of mixed blood."

"Thank you," Elfhild gave him a small smile, feeling somewhat appeased. Although she did not know where the city of Turkûrzgoi was located, or anything else about Nurn for that matter, she would never let _him_ know that. "I shall remember your name. Now, since you have asked us about so many details of our lives, it seems only fair that you tell us something of your own." Though her manner was cool and reserved, she was beginning to like the pompous clerk in spite of herself, and he could be quite flattering as well...

"Sir, please tell us," Elffled implored, leaning forward to hear him better.

He looked at them both for a few moments before beginning. "Perhaps you have guessed by now that I am neither Easterling nor Southron. I suppose that must puzzle you." He looked from one girl to the other. "Yes, I see that it does. Without giving the matter any thought, you assumed that I must be one of the 'barbarian races,' as you call them. No," he told them, his pride obvious in his voice, "though it is mixed, the blood of the Númenóreans runs in my veins."

"Well, sir," Elfhild blushed, "there was no way to know."

"You see?" he shook his head. "An assumption based on ignorance... That can be dangerous. But time grows short, and let us not waste it in argument." He glanced at the still-open record book." Emptying his wine goblet, he motioned to a slave boy to pour him another. "I will tell you what I can in the brief time remaining to us." His face grew very serious. "After the Great Tower was destroyed long ago, the lands hereabouts knew no war, but enjoyed a period known as the Watchful Peace. It was during that time that a Gondorian ancestor of mine traveled to Nurn and was so impressed with the country that he wanted to stay. When he had retired from the Army of Gondor, he took his family and settled there.

"Throughout all the turbulent history of the country since that time, my family has remained there, prospering as things improved. Over the years, my branch of the family became involved in government, many becoming politicians and scribes." His expressive eyes reflected some unbidden thought that seemed to trouble him, but he soon shook the mood away with another draught from his goblet. "That is all there is to tell about me other than, as you have observed, I am a clerk." He smiled. "When I return to Nurn, I plan to write a book recounting some of my observations of women and other delightful subjects. Mayhap I will record your names in it," the young man suggested. This time he seemed to be sincere.

"That would be very kind of you, sir," Elfhild replied graciously.

"If only we could read it," Elffled exclaimed wistfully.

"Perhaps we will meet again in Nurn someday. One never knows, but now our time grows to a close," he remarked, a tinge of regret in his voice. Taking two small pieces of parchment, he wrote down a few lines on each one and handed them to the twins. "After you leave here, the guards will escort you to the blacksmith's workshop. There, you are to give these pieces of parchment to his assistant, who will engrave your names, numbers, and all necessary information on your tags."

"Blacksmith? Tags?" Elffled inquired, her confusion obvious in the bewildered expression on her face.

"We have numbers?" Elfhild asked, suddenly very frightened.

"Yes, Elfhild. Your number is 99337-GER031T, and your sister's is 99338-GER032T. The first five digits in the sequence are your own individual number. No one can ever take that away from you." He smiled pleasantly. "Is that not good?" 

"That certainly is reassuring," Elfhild remarked dryly.

"The other numbers, sir," Elffled spoke up, her voice timid. "What do they mean?"

"Ah, those." He rubbed his nose with the tip of one of his long, graceful fingers. "The second sequence records personal and demographical information. Slaves from the same region or village can share some of the same designations. The 'G' is for Grenefeld, your village; the 'E' stands for the Eastfold, your region; 'R' is for Rohan; '03' stands for 3003, the year in which you were born; and '1T' and '2T' state the order in which you were born, and that you are twins."

"But I do not want to be called by a number!" Elffled exclaimed, close to tears.

"Nothing to worry about, my sweet," Garavegion gently murmured as he rose from the table and moved behind them. As he rested a hand upon each of their shoulders, both girls trembled under his touch. "Are numbers anything to fear? Why, certainly not." He squeezed their shoulders reassuringly. "Every slave of Mordor has one. Have no fear; no one will call you by your numbers. They are only for the records, a mere formality." His voice was gentle and persuasive, but still his words sent a shiver of dread up their spines.

"These tags, sir... what do we do with them? From your Master's infamous reputation, I hardly think that He would want us to wear these tags upon ribbons about our necks." Tossing her head to the side, Elfhild looked up boldly at the scribe, a challenge in her aquamarine eyes.

"You call him my 'Master' - again, you make assumptions about me." Garavegion's voice turned icy cold and he stepped back from the sisters. "I have no master! I am my own man!" His pale face grew dark with anger.

Elfhild twisted around on the bench to face him. "Sir, I am sorry. I did not mean--"

"No matter!" He held up his hand to silence her. "'Tis a pity that we must part on a note of unpleasantness, but you are dismissed. You will learn about your new necklaces soon enough," he chuckled darkly. "Boy," he motioned to one of the slaves at the side of the tent, "escort these two back to their guards!"


	8. A Band of Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

After leaving the clerk's pavilion, the twins were escorted by their guard to the blacksmith's workshop. Situated around the hastily built wooden shanty were rows of shelves, each marked with painted runes and holding iron collars. Resting on a bench, his back leaning against the work table, sprawled a man whose bulging obesity had been the cause of the deep bow in the length of the wooden seat. His face was covered with a coarse, bristly black beard which was denuded in places with raised red pustules and splotches of lurid, inflamed skin. "Mange," Elfhild reckoned, "just like a hound." Sitting with his hand idly resting near his crotch, massive thighs spread obscenely, he gawked rudely at the twins. 

His back towards the women, a much smaller man was bent over the work table, his attention concentrated upon some labor which he was performing. "Almost done, Master." As he turned to look at the massive brute beside him, the twins saw him in profile. An ugly little man, his face was not improved by the dark hair spread too thinly over an abnormally large skull; the sharply defined nose; and the weak, receding chin.

The guard ordered the twins to wait and be silent. Since there were no chairs in the building, the girls stood stoically. The guard seemed to find waiting as monotonous as the twins, and, to pass the time, he relaxed into a casual manner of speaking. He pointed out to the girls that the larger man was the blacksmith and the other man was his assistant. In an enthusiastic voice, he described the making of the collars and remarked that the place where they had been forged was "as hot as the flaming fires of Udûn!" All that remained to be done now was the inscribing of their names and information on brass tags which would be riveted to the iron.

"Blacksmith, I will be waiting outside if you need me," the guard announced as he turned and walked out the door.

The blacksmith, who was wearing a leather apron over his enormous drooping stomach, arose from the work bench and stared at the twins. "Let us make this as quick as possible, slave girls." The twins tried not to gape at the monstrosity before them.

"Submit passively, or pay the consequences," the smaller man piped up in a voice with a distinctive nasal twang. "All you have to do is stand quietly while the collar is placed about your neck." He did not bother to hide the yawn which escaped his lips.

Her head held high, Elfhild challenged him. "And what if we do not?"

"The guards will be called, and I do not think you will enjoy that," the blacksmith interjected. "They like to entertain themselves with pretty slaves. Their hands have a tendency to roam when they discipline a girl, and you might guess where their groping fingers will wander. I would not mind having a feel of you myself." The blacksmith smirked as his pig-like little eyes studied them, and his assistant gave a gurgling chuckle that sounded obscene. The smaller man blinked as though the light offended his vision.

Warily, Elfhild studied the two men. Should she give in and submit, accepting the collar like a trained dog? Or should she fight the degradation, and possibly suffer some dreadful punishment? Licking her lips nervously, Elffled glanced between her sister and the men, praying that there would be no trouble. 

"Elfhild, please..." she whispered, but her sister ignored her with a toss of her head.

"This will not take long. Just accept this gracefully and you will be on your way." Leering at her, the blacksmith revealed a gleaming gold front tooth in a mouth impossibly small for a man of his size. For a moment, Elfhild wondered how he had ever been able to stuff so much food into such a tiny orifice. Obviously, he had been more than successful, she thought wryly.

"I do not think we need any new jewelry today," Elfhild replied curtly as she stared the man straight in the eye.

"I do not know about these two!" the assistant whined as he looked nervously around at the blacksmith.

Both the blacksmith and his assistant had been taught their art in Lugbûrz. One thing that had always been emphasized there was the admonition, "Never trust slaves." There was no telling when one of the scum might go mad and grab some work tool lying about. Though it had never happened to either man, they had both heard tales of slaves who, with murderous gleams in their demented eyes, had come rushing with improvised weapons at guards or supervisors. More than one had slain his master. Lugbûrz was efficient, though, and any rebels were either struck dead on the spot or hauled away to the dark dungeons to provide sport for the guards.

This girl was much too saucy for his liking. Unwilling to take any chances, the blacksmith did the simplest thing possible. "Guards!" he thundered.

Hearing the alarm, five burly guards rushed through the entrance. Immediately surrounded by the men, each girl soon found herself held by two guards, the men's strong fingers pressing deeply into their arms. The other guard crossed his arms over his chest, ogling the girls as they struggled to escape. His eyes were riveted upon their jutting breasts, which jiggled deliciously with each desperate movement.

"No!" Elffled cried in dismay, her mind reeling at the sudden onrush of attackers. Snarling like a wild animal, Elfhild fought and kicked sideways at the guards. 

"Bind them!" the blacksmith shouted. "They will claw out my eyes! I know these she-demons from the north!"

A look of near panic on his face, the assistant picked up a pair of pliers from the workbench and, trembling, he stood up, holding the pliers defensively before him. "Do not let them near me!"

Elfhild could have laughed at the foolish little man and the equally cowardly giant blacksmith. However, her situation was much too unpleasant to permit any mocking laughter.

The guards took no time in drawing the girls' wrists together behind their backs and tying their hands together with stout ropes. Growling in frustration, Elfhild continued her vicious kicks, aiming for the guard's shins. A man beside her gathered up her hair in his fist and gave it a fierce tug, sending Elfhild into a paroxysm of pain and drawing from her throat shrieks of agony. At the sight of her sister's distress, Elffled, close to swooning, began to sob hysterically.

"Do you want to be bald, slave girl?" the guard threatened Elfhild as he gave her hair another jerk. "I will tear your hair out by the roots if you do not hold still!"

Wincing from the severe pain, Elfhild ceased her struggles, submitting unwillingly to her tormentors.

Now that both twins had been subdued and tied, one of Elffled's guards stepped behind her. Holding her around the waist, his other hand fondled her firm rump. She squirmed in his grasp, trying to evade him, but his hands pressed their merciless attack and slid upward, groping her full breasts. Weeping even harder, her cries turned into wails.

"I tried to warn you!" the blacksmith admonished. "But, no, you little chits would not listen!"

"Hold the little wildcat steady, men," the assistant hissed through his teeth. Moving around behind Elfhild as the men held her, he placed the circle of iron about her neck. A small metal rod clicked in place in the lock at the back of her iron collar. "Are you not pleased with your new necklace?" the little man chortled, his hand moving forward to squeeze her breasts painfully.

"Damn you, no, you scrawny little weasel!" Elfhild shot back, hate dripping from every word. "You deserve to be hanged from the highest scaffold by this horrible thing!" She tried to wrench her arm free to elbow him, but the guards held her fast.

"Bring me the other collar. I will put it on this little beauty myself." The blacksmith wiped off his sweating brow as his assistant went back to the worktable, soon returning with another collar. "Hold her tight, men! She is probably as vicious as her sister!" the smith told the guards as he moved behind Elffled and lifted her hair to the side. Too frightened even to struggle, the girl stood there trembling as the man slipped the cold iron about her neck and locked it in place. The key in the lock sounded with an echoing finality.

As she watched the huge blacksmith collar her sister, Elfhild felt as though the iron band around her own neck was squeezing it slowly, cutting off her air. Although the collar fit snugly, the band was not painful in itself, and was far from imperiling her life. Still, the hateful iron collar was greatly vexing, and she highly resented both it and the doom that it represented. Enraged at the indignities to which she and her sister were being subjected, Elfhild's chest heaved and her blue eyes burnt with a fierce hatred.

Finished with Elffled, the blacksmith lumbered around to face both girls. "Just cannot satisfy the two of you, is that it?" he chortled. "Perhaps you do not like the color, or you think they are not fancy enough to suit you? Or maybe you do not think that the black metal favors your fair skin. While they might not be extravagant enough for your tastes, I assure you that both collars are quite stout and very serviceable. And another thing," he rubbed his hand fondly over his huge stomach, "since they are so close to the veins in your precious necks, you will think twice about trying to file them off." 

Elfhild stared defiantly at the ruddy face of the man, resentment boiling inside her. There was nothing she could do; her wrists were tied behind her back, and she and her sister were entirely at the mercy of these louts.

Looping a finger in one of the iron rings on Elfhild's collar, he pulled her face close to his. "You probably are not impressed with the workmanship of this collar, but I assure you it is well made and strong. Possibly you noticed that it is hinged on the side with a loop both in the front and the back. These rings are the places where chains will hook you to the other slaves in the line. No," he laughed unpleasantly, "it is not to double-hitch you in a stall like a horse! Although it could be used for that, should your master have the yearning to do so."

"By Melkor's seething balls, Master Smith! I would like to be the one to hitch her between the posts and hump my way to paradise inside her!" The blacksmith's assistant produced another one of his gurgling, obscene laughs. The he blinked, hiccuped, and broke wind loudly, the combined sounds resembling a small dog suffering from intestinal distress.

"It would take that to hold this one," the smith chuckled, "but she would be worth it!"

Clenching her fists behind her back, Elfhild sucked in her breath through gritted teeth, hissing like a viper. She glared at the crude men, her eyes narrow black slits of contempt.

"Flash your eyes at me like that, pretty wench," the blacksmith held his thumb under her chin as his forefinger stroked her lower lip, "and I will have a kiss from your sullen lips!"

"Take your hand off me," Elfhild spat, each word falling like icicle spears, cold and sharp. "I would rather kiss a hog than you!"

"Hear that, men?" the blacksmith put his hands on his hips, his elbows cocked out at an angle to his body. "She would rather kiss a hog! Is that not the quaintest thing you ever heard in all your days?" He guffawed, his huge belly shaking with every sound. A grime-covered hand reached out for her neck, the other clumsily groping for her buttocks. Pulling her to his face, his bulbous red lips harshly pressed against hers, and she felt as though her mouth had been engulfed by a slimy piece of raw liver. A sharp pinch to her bottom had her screaming, and he took the opportunity to plunge his unwholesome tongue into her open mouth. The excitement must have been too great for him, for he belched into her face, spewing garlic and onion flavored spittle upon her lips and cheek.

"Never been kissed much, have you, wench? You do not even know how to kiss!" the blacksmith mocked, laughing at her crimson, spit-flecked face as he pushed her away. 

"Y-you are a loathsome, repugnant beast!" Elfhild shrieked as spat profusely, trying to purge the foul taste from her mouth. And to think that was her first kiss! She longed to wipe off her lips, but her hands were bound helplessly behind her back.

The scene set the guards into riotous laughter. "Pity the poor maid! She has just been bussed by the great boar himself! Come now, men, do we want her to have that memory?" a guard exclaimed, chuckling. "You do not mind sharing her, do you, blacksmith?"

"Not at all," he smith returned, folding his dough-like arms over his immense chest.

The closest guard grabbed Elfhild, thoroughly kissing her. With a laugh, he passed her to the next. The guards were not content until each one had raped the girl's mouth at least twice.

"What about the other one? We do not want her to feel neglected!" their chief called out merrily.

"Oh, no, please!" Elffled cried out, sobbing.

"We insist," the chieftain murmured as he took her in his arms, delivering kiss after kiss on her cheeks and neck and concluding with the plunder of her mouth.

"My turn, pet!" the next one shouted.

"Here, here!" the blacksmith snarled. "Stop now! This is taking too much time!"

"We are almost finished!" the last man in line exclaimed as he squeezed Elffled's nipples through her dress. He capped off his achievement by lifting up her skirt and pushing an exploring hand between her legs. "Now you have been kissed by real men and not the Master Porker! Remember that," the man smiled as he gave Elffled a parting tweak to her rump. Violent sobs rocking her slender body, she fell to her knees, moaning in misery. 

Muttering, the blacksmith turned his considerable bulk around, and after waddling over to the work bench, he sat down with a sigh. "All right, men," he wheezed as he wiped his forehead off with a dirty rag pulled from his leather apron, "you are dismissed, all save two of you."

"Wanting to have all the fun for yourself, are you, blacksmith? Do not forget; we will be right outside the tent. If there is any sporting to be done, we will take our share!" The chieftain of the guards winked at the blacksmith before he and his men moved out the door.

"Now you," the blacksmith pointed to one of the two remaining guards, "take the quiet, passive slave on to the next tent. I have a few more words to say to her sister."

Swaggering over to the trembling, crying Elffled, the guard pulled her roughly to her feet. "Get along, sweet beauty! Walk prettily in front of me... unless you would rather go with me behind the tent. We could get a lot closer there!"

"No!" she wailed, choking on her tears.

"You are going to get a nice pair of boots," he laughed and gave her rump an encouraging slap to prod her out the door.

"Thought you were so wise, did you not?" the blacksmith roared in laughter as he looked Elfhild up and down. "Maybe you will learn the way things go now. Dense fools are the Rohirrim, with heads as hard as oak casks! If your people had conquered mine, they would make us slaves, sure as anything! Perhaps you do not know it - and from the looks of you, there is not a brain in your foolish head - the ancestors of the allies of your country, the bastard Gondorians, took many slaves back to their island in the old days. Now they want everyone to think they are holy, but at heart they are no better than we are! Now, go wench, you have your collar. Wear it proudly!" He winked at her.

"I hate the accursed thing and I hate your accursed land and everything it represents!" Elfhild choked out, her lips aching and swollen from all the kisses which had been forced upon her.

"Not anything you can do about it," he smirked. "Whether you hate the collar or love it, there is one thing for certain - you will never be able to free yourself of it. Only your master can remove the iron band. No one will ever free you, though! Not a foul-tempered shrew such as you! Even with your legs spread wide and a man at your threshold, you would be as cold as the dead! Guard, take this impudent little whore out!"

"My pleasure, metal-smith," the remaining guard replied smugly as he strode over to Elfhild. "Come now, wench. Remember if you cause me any trouble, I will pull your dress up and blister your bottom with my bare hands! You might not like that, but I surely will."

As the guard escorted Elfhild to the door, the blacksmith called out, "You! Slave wench! Never again act like royalty with us! You are nothing but an ignorant village girl! You should take heart, though." He nudged his assistant and gave him a knowing look. "In addition to your new jewelry, you will soon have a pair of new shoes. Now you can never say that you walked into the Master's Kingdom upon bare and bruised feet. Guard, now get her out of here and slap her arse a few times for me!"

"Oh, I will, Master Smith, I will!" the guard guffawed. "Maybe a little more than a few slaps!"

"Bastards!" an enraged Elfhild yelled out. "Vile and detestable filth! I hate you all! May every one of your wretched days be a curse to you!"

The guard brought his hand back and slapped her bottom hard. "Hurry along," he ordered as he struck her again, "or we will stop on the way and have a little tumble behind one of the tents!"

As the guard disappeared with Elfhild, the massive smith chuckled softly. "Time for a little respite for our labors." He smiled as he wrapped a beefy arm fondly about his assistant's thin, scrawny shoulders. A high pitched laugh escaped the little man's chapped lips as he edged closer to his master, laying a hand upon one of his huge, trunk-like thighs.


	9. The Cobbler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

With a threatening tap of the spear point on one of Elffled's maligned hips, the burly guard escorted the weeping girl through the open entrance of the tent.

"Cobbler! Here is another one for you to fit with your fine slippers! But mind you, make haste! The master slaver grows impatient at the endless delay! This one's sister has been detained by the blacksmith and his rogue. If either one of these wenches gives you any trouble, throw her over your knees, hoist up her skirt and lay the flail to her arse!" 

"That will not be necessary." Intent upon tacking nails into the rims of the sole of a boot, the ruddy-faced, beardless young man paid scant attention to the guard and his charge. Absentmindedly, the cobbler flicked away a strand of light-colored hair that had strayed over one of his eyes.

"Volchok, I told you to hurry!"

"Patience, patience," the cobbler mumbled. "You just caused me to drop a nail." Carefully, he took another boot nail from his mouth. Without looking at the guard, he pounded the nail into the leather in one quick motion.

"Oh, hell!" the disgusted guard exclaimed. With a scowl at Elffled, he strode out of the tent.

Cupping his hand over his mouth, the cobbler spat the nails out and wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand. He glanced at Elffled for the first time. "These guards become tiresome after a while."

Head bowed, a tangled nest of hair falling over her face, Elffled stood, her shoulders softly trembling. Her lips felt swollen and fat from the kisses of the five guards, her breasts ached from the rough fondling which they had received from careless paws, and her bottom stung from the many pinches which had been delivered there. Even though her body reeked after almost a month without a bath, every part of her felt defiled and corrupted by a different type of taint. She was very, very frightened now, her thoughts swimming with dread at what would befall her next.

"Now, now, what do we have here? Crying?" the lanky young man murmured soothingly as he rose to his feet and walked over to her. "Will you not look at me? No, I see that you will not. Things must have gone badly for you! Come now, look up. I will not harm you."

Cautiously, Elffled raised her head, afraid of what would happen to her if she did not. 

"Yes, I see that you did have an unpleasant time! Sit down at the stool over there by my work table."

With an uncertain look at him, Elffled shuffled over and sat down as a small sob escaped her lips. She closed her eyes and waited for the next indignity, cringing as a damp piece of cloth was pressed to her bruised lips.

With a defiant Elfhild walking in front of him, another guard swaggered through the tent opening. "Next customer, Volchok... Idling again, are you? As usual, I see you are not tending to business."

"I do not lose sleep fearing that I will be dismissed from my employment, my good fellow, for my services are indispensable! Now go away and leave me in peace, or you just might find that your next pair of boots pinch your feet!"

"Damned Rhûnian!" the guard swore under his breath and stalked out the tent.

"Sit down, lady, please, by your sister." He surveyed Elfhild's angry, tear-streaked face. "Yes, it is obvious that you are twins... I think you look even a worse sight than does she!"

"T - the guard," Elffled stammered, "are you not afraid of him?"

"No, why should I be?" Both eyebrows quirked upward in a questioning gaze. "We are both employed by the same trading establishment. I make his boots!" the young man laughed. Taking the wet cloth, he gently wiped her face. "Feel better?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" she replied, more glad for the kindness than she was for the cleansing moisture.

"Now your sister needs proper attention." Volchok dabbed gently at Elfhild's debased lips and then moved the cloth to her grime-covered cheeks. "Both your faces are very dirty," he murmured, "and I suspect that the two of you are infested with lice. Allow me to ascertain whether my assumptions are correct or not." As he bent over and peered at her filthy locks, he held up a few strands of her hair to the light and examined at them closely.

"Just as I thought. Your hair is crawling with vermin. Your scalps must itch unbearably!" The young man hastily wiped his finger off with the moistened cloth and tossed the rag aside. Both girls blushed in humiliation and embarrassment. "With so many captives, there are no provisions for washing here, but I assure you that the establishment will see that your bathing will be attended to in time... and your infestation will be eradicated with the administration of oil. Just try to be patient and bear with it a little longer. The Southrons and Easterlings are fastidious people for the main part. They insist upon cleanliness, and their custom is to take a number of baths a day whenever possible."

Of course, all the slaves had become plagued with lice over the duration of the journey. People forced to be kept together in close contact for days become prone to parasites and diseases. The orc guards constantly scratched themselves, sometimes furiously digging their clawed fingers under their helms and leather armor. No one was surprised when the fiendish little insects had eagerly sought the tender hides of their new hosts, for their skin was far more delicate than the orcs.

Though they did not put so much importance upon cleanliness as did the Easterlings and Southrons, the Rohirrim had always taken pride in their appearance, and slovenliness such as this was an alien thing to them. The peasant women mixed herbs with the bed straw to drive away parasites. The craftsmen of the Mark were skilled at carving fine combs of wood and bone, for most everyone tried to keep well-groomed hair and beards. A number among the Rohirrim had even retained the old ways of the North and constructed saunas for relaxing steam baths.

Like those of most of the captives, the scalps of Elfhild and Elffled were teeming with lice, and Elfhild longed to dig at her tormented pate. Why did the cobbler have to remind her of the unwelcome presence of the infernal blood-sucking host?

Volchok shook his head. "While many among the Southrons and Easterlings are civilized men of good taste, the guards, however, are a totally different proposition. They are mostly ruffians, as you two have found out yourselves. However, in a time of war, where can men of quality be found for such work? My employers are reputable men, but they are forced to accept unsavory sorts of the baser lot."

Elffled tested her lips by rubbing one against the other, and while they still ached and stung, the liquid had done much to refresh them. "Do you mean, sir, that these guards are not of the military?"

"Oh, no, certainly not!" The young man seemed most eager to right her misconception. "You have seen the last of the military... at least for a while. The orcs who brought you down from the North received their pay yesterday, and the whole lot of you was transferred to a civilian slave trading establishment based in Nurn."

"I guessed as much," Elfhild replied bitterly. "So these armed guards are in the employ of the slavers?"

"Correct." Volchok walked to the side of the tent where he took a wineskin which was hanging from a peg on one of the supporting beams. "Drink," he commanded as he placed the mouthpiece to Elffled's abused lips.

"Thank you," she whispered as she drank.

His friendly blue eyes looked into hers. "Drink again."

"No more, please."

"Now you, my lady." He moved the stem of the wineskin to Elfhild's mouth.

The cobbler had called them "my lady." How long had it been now since they were referred to by that polite address? "Perhaps there is some trick to this," Elfhild thought warily. She was at last learning that not everything was as it first appeared in this strange new world which had been forced upon them. The experience with the scribe had been quite an enlightening one, and now she began to question that which first seemed innocent.

When Volchok was certain that the sisters had drunk their fill, he returned the wineskin to its peg. On his way back to them, he stopped by his work table and brought back a cobbler's measuring device. 

"Now for the fitting of your shoes." He knelt in front of Elffled, and after taking her worn shoes from her feet, he tossed them to a great pile of equally battered footwear. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he looked up to her. "How long has it been since you last had a bath?"

"Maybe a month." She bowed her head in shame.

Volchok coughed politely. "I have grown used to the stench of sour feet, and it does not bother me at all, I assure you." Coughing frequently, he quickly finished the fitting and turned to her sister.

"Your feet smell even riper than your sister's, but you do have very trim ankles," he murmured as he ran his hand up and down her ankles and calves. "Forgive me, but I do have a fancy for well-shaped feet, and yours are quite lovely." He quickly removed her shoes, and after tossing them to join the rest of the mangled, odoriferous pile, he applied the measuring device to each foot.

"Just a moment, just a moment. I will find boots to fit you both." He rose to his feet and walked to a section of bins. After searching through several containers, he extracted two pairs of low-topped boots, and, reaching to a shelf above, he pulled down two pairs of stockings.

The guard stuck his head inside the tent once more. "Volchok, are you about finished?"

"Not quite," the cobbler raised his voice to reply. "Soon, soon."

"Ten minutes, no more!"

"Make that fifteen. Go out and find someone else to pester."

"Volchok, I warn you..." the guard mumbled as he left.

"Lady," the cobbler knelt down again at Elffled's feet, "I promise you that no matter how much I might adore women's feet, I will keep my hands where they belong when I try these boots upon you."

Elffled closed her eyes and trembled slightly as her skirts were slid up to rest atop her knees. The cobbler began humming as he tended to her feet. He used both hands to ease the stockings up on first one foot and then the other, and then fastened the hose securely with a garter. He picked up her foot and slipped the boot over it, securing the ties. Soon both sisters were admiring their new boots.

"I must offer you my condolences. This is not my best work. I must make the shoes ahead of time so that they will be ready. Alas, there is no time to assure the best fitting shoes for you or the color, and there is only one style." His brows knitted together, Volchok frowned as he looked at the boots.

Elfhild regarded the cobbler for a moment. He seemed to be a better sort than were the blacksmith, his assistant or the guards, even if he was a little too interested in their feet. "At least this one seems polite... but one never knows about these folk."

Finishing with the fitting of their stockings and boots, the cobbler stood up. "Do you like music?"

"Yes, sir," Elfhild replied courteously.

"Then I will sing a little tune which I made up myself. I call it 'My Faraway Home.'" And in a deep, baritone voice, he began to sing in Common Speech.

> Wandering to places through fair and foul weather  
> Often my mind travels while I work with the leather  
> My thoughts take me often to lands where I roam  
> Walking through places so far from my home
> 
> Rhûn is my country, where there dwell my kin  
> Sheltered, protected, far from the common din  
> Will you come with me and journey afar  
> Charting our path by the great northern star?
> 
> What can I promise under far northern sky  
> Wonders beyond measure; delight to the eye  
> There dwells the stag, the ox of great fame  
> And wild folk and free that no one can tame!
> 
> And when winter grows dark and the nights are cold  
> We listen to tales of warriors stout and bold!  
> Our kindred about us, our hearth warm and near  
> We sing and we dance and raise tankards of cheer!
> 
> Some men long to journey to the Western Sea  
> But such unknown places hold no treasure for me  
> So dream of your sprites, your sea-maids so fair  
> All are illusions and baubles of air
> 
> I want only my people, my King and my home  
> If I have only this, I will nevermore roam!  
> What do I need but the great Inland Sea  
> A hut, some furs and a warm wench with me!
> 
> I am no bard who labors for money and ale  
> But just a poor cobbler with many a tale  
> I promise you nothing, a story, a song  
> And my company on nights that are wearisome long!

"Did you like my song?" he looked at them from questioning blue eyes.

"Oh, yes, sir," Elfhild smiled, grateful for this distraction from the humiliating incident in the blacksmith's shed "We have not heard a song - a good song - in ages, only the croaking of orcs."

Her mind muddled and distracted, Elffled had heard little of the man's singing, and it had passed by as nothing more than an indistinct mumble. How could she concentrate on frivolous matters, such as quaint songs and tales of other lands? She could think of nothing but the nightmarish visit to the blacksmith's shop. Her swollen, ravished lips ached and throbbed, and she could still feel the rough touches of the guards, as though the imprint of their foul, groping hands had been branded into her flesh. Though the cobbler's tune was a merry one, she did not raise her eyes to look at him and stared aimlessly at the ground.

"Sir, where is Rhûn?" Elfhild ventured hesitantly.

"Far to the northeast of where we are now, where lies the inland body of water known as the Sea of Rhûn. Though many of those in Rhûn have blonde hair and blue eyes, we are no kin to you. Indeed, my people are enemies of yours and have been since ancient times. Of course," he reflected, "mayhap some of my ancestors took wives of your women. I am glad that they did, or I would not have been here today." He flashed them a mischievous, almost boyish, grin. "But we are of a diverse stock, encompassing many tribes and peoples. No one knows from whence we came, but I would wager our origins are somewhere even farther to the East or South." He paused and looked at them kindly. "I trust that the song pleased you. Common Speech is not my own language, as you can readily see!"

"Your singing was wonderful, nevertheless," Elfhild smiled amiably. After the loathsome blacksmith and his assistant, she found it comforting to speak with someone who seemed friendly and well-mannered.

"Compliments and appreciation for my music must be acknowledged." Volchok bowed in a sweeping, courtly manner. "Ic thancie the." His face lit up in a broad grin, but somewhere deep within his blue eyes stirred a hint of mystery and intrigue which passed as quickly as it had come. "Aye, I know some of your language! I have learned dialects and tongues, and have traveled divers places in my labors. Many people call me by name. Perhaps I shall see you again. You never know when you might need a new pair of shoes."

Elfhild's heart skipped a beat after hearing her own language spoken by an outsider. Few understood the tongue of the Rohirrim, for many considered the language as archaic and uncouth. Not even the folk of Anórien cared to become fluent in Rohirric. Perhaps this man had learned a few words from other prisoners from her land.

"Maybe," Elfhild replied, "but in better circumstances, I hope."

"We can always wish for that," he smiled.

The guard looked inside the tent and glared. "Can you hurry it up a little? It is not that we have all day!" he grumbled.

"Patience, good man," the cobbler replied curtly.

The young man sat back down at the bench and spoke in a low voice, once again in their language. "You have passed the worst of it now and will soon be leaving the city. You might say that this was the most difficult part, for here is where you commence your learning."

Wondering at the sympathetic demeanor of the Rhûnian and his curious skills at speaking the language of Rohan, Elfhild nodded gravely. Elffled paid little heed to the man, for her gaze was still locked upon the boot-beaten ground.

"I am sorry for your plight. I hope you are sent to Rhûn; it will be far better for you there."

"If the folk of Rhûn who prove to be as kind as you, then it is my earnest hope as well," Elfhild whispered back.

"May fate be with you." He glanced at the entry to the tent.

"Farewell, most worthy Master Cobbler and bard of many songs," she bid graciously. "Thank you for your sympathy and your kindness."

He smiled at her. "You never know when friends, both new and old, will be about. Take comfort in what joys you can find along the way."

Brandishing his spear, the surly guard returned to the inside of the tent. "You have had enough time! Now come along and stop this idling!"

Both sisters quickly scrambled to their feet, and Elfhild curtsied before the mysterious cobbler. "Friends are always good to have," she whispered. "Farewell!"

"Beoth ge gesunde," the cobbler replied, bowing to them.

"Stop talking and start walking!" the guard muttered as he herded the girls forward, his metal-tipped spear ever at the ready.

***  
NOTES

"Ic thancie the" - "I thank you" (Old English)  
"Beoth ge gesunde" - "Be you safe, healthy, prosperous" (Old English)


	10. A Lesson in Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild 

_"Still, you may at least disturb the Orcs and Swarthy Men from their feasting in the White Tower."_  
    - Hirgon, "The Muster of Rohan," The Return of the King, p. 73

Servants bowed at the opening of Shakh Awidan's pavilion to welcome the masterful personage who approached. Graceful in spite of the bulk of his well-muscled body, a tawny-skinned man strode into the entry, his green and yellow robes swirling about him like a sandstorm in the desert. The man, a masterpiece of the Haradric race, sported a black mustache and short, well-groomed beard which was fragrant with perfumed oil. Atop his head was a white turban, at its center a small aigrette composed of egret feathers caught by a ruby brooch, and at his side gently swung a sheathed scimitar.

"Blessings unto you and welcome to my dwelling, Shakh Esarhaddon uHuzziya," smiled Awidan as he arose from the red and gold damask cushions where he had been reclining. Bowing from the waist, he brought the fingers of his right hand to his breast, then to his lips and finally to his forehead.

Two fair-skinned, raven-tressed Gondorian slave women, who had been standing on either side of Awidan, ceased plying their long-plumed feathered fans. Bowing their heads, they crossed the poles over their bosoms in obeisance to the guest. At the sight of the handsome, tawny shakh who was visiting with their frail master, the women felt their sensitive nipples swelling, the jutting nubs straining against the flimsy material of their gowns. Their dark, sultry eyes, which were modestly downcast, rose wistfully to gaze across the tent at the display of Southern manliness before them. The guest's raging vigor stood in sharp contrast to the wizened countenance of their pathetic lord.

"Silim, Shakh Awidan lûk-Nysmr." The newcomer touched his heart and inclined his head. "May good fortune always seek you out and find you. I am greatly honored to be with you today."

"Pray sit down, Shakh Esarhaddon, and enjoy the hospitality of my home." Awidan motioned to deep cushions surrounding a low table on the floor. "All that you see before you is yours." He made a sweeping flourish with his right hand.

"Your courtesy is without limits, Shakh," Esarhaddon replied as he sat down cross-legged on the other side of the table from Awidan. "I could use a draught of that wine you served last night. Do you have any more of it?"

"Aye," Shakh Awidan replied eagerly. "I have a goodly supply of bottles packed in snow carried down from the high mountains. 'Tis a good vintage, tart but still smooth to the taste."

"Such a cooling draught would be welcome to wash the dust from my mouth. The excellence of your table continues to amaze me, Shakh Awidan." He smiled, his eyelids drooping lazily over his dark brown eyes.

Shakh Awidan clapped his hands, a summons for the slave men waiting near the side of the tent. "Galuech, go out to my storage cellar and bring us a bottle. Make sure that the snow still clings to it when you draw it from the cool recesses of the sawdust pit." His eyes darted to the other slave. "Hunethon, fetch more cakes and candied fruits for our guest."

Soon the men had returned with sweetmeats and wine. Their tasks finished for the time, the two slaves retired quietly to the side of the tent to wait for their master's next command.

"You plan to sell those two with this lot?" Esarhaddon asked as he picked up his goblet, toying with the vessel in his hand before bringing it up to his lips.

"Nay, Shakh, not with this consignment, for their incisions have not yet completely healed. Besides that, I would not trust them to be alone with any lord's women at this time. Though they are no longer capable of siring children, they still could easily pleasure some lord's concubines with their fingers and tongues! They are the deceitful, decadent men of the West, and you know how perverse they can be! Whippings and the absence of their stones will eventually gentle them, but for now they cannot be trusted. But, aye, when I judge them sedate, I will part with the both of them, for they will bring good prices." Shakh Awidan looked disapprovingly over at the two Gondorian eunuchs.

Esarhaddon glanced at the large platter of food and chose a dried date, studying Awidan as he chewed the fruit. After swallowing, he sipped slowly from his goblet of wine. "I was impressed with the manner that you used in dealing with the orcs; especially was I pleased with how little you paid them."

"I am a good businessman, Shakh," the slightly-built man exhaled in satisfaction, pleased that at last the powerful shakh had recognized his abilities.

Esarhaddon's eyes flickered for a moment and then the heavy lids slid halfway over his dark orbs, settling there like half-closed drapes. He surveyed the platter of dried fruits as though he were intently appraising them. Turning his head, he gave the other man a languid look, his eyelids lowering even more, and it appeared that he was on the verge of sleep.

"I am surprised, though, that the louts did not turn mean on you and slit your throat. You cheated them, Awidan, blessings upon you! You cheated them soundly! Well done, man! Well done!" Esarhaddon reached across the table and clasped Awidan's shoulder. "You are indeed a shrewd businessman! I will tell my brother Zannanza of how you euchred them. You wore the bastards out with your usual long dissertations about your 'ailments' and how you are 'greatly put upon' and 'long-suffering.'"

"Certainly." The older man humbly bobbed his head in agreement. "One must use many methods when concluding a business transaction. That is part of the satisfaction of bargaining: the talk that goes with it. I never feel that I have sealed a truly good agreement until I have had a great deal of wine and much conversation."

"You mean you exhaust them with your endless complaints about your health," laughed Esarhaddon.

"Every tactic is fair in war and trade," Awidan smirked, waving his hand in a grandiose gesture. After taking a draught from his goblet, he belched loudly, showing his appreciation of the good vintage. Reaching to a platter of mounded fruit, he inspected the selection and thoughtfully drew out a candied fig. "Luscious!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips and eying his wine once again.

Esarhaddon raised his glass into the air. "To good markets and rich profits! ...And to your good sense, Awidan, that has prevented you from never attempting that stratagem upon me."

"Never would I try to deceive you in business. You are like a brother to me!" An injured expression came to Awidan's eyes, and he held his hands out, palm upward in a posture of supplication and resignation. A little wine sloshed out of his goblet and fell unnoticed upon the table. 

"Only because I am too shrewd ever to enter into a transaction with you," Esarhaddon murmured, raising his hands in imitation of the other.

Awidan laughed. "Only one merchant truly knows another."

"Or a merchant who has been cheated by another merchant," the other offered and they both chuckled.

"It is only good business."

"Awidan, to be a wise businessman, one must consider all things. Whatever we do in our dealings with other countries is our own concern, and we will ask whatever the market will bear. If the sheep sometimes find that their skins have taken along with their fleeces, that is the result of their own stupidity." Esarhaddon smiled lazily, his eyes almost closing completely.

"Aye, Shakh. The bulk of the traffic of the esteemed establishment of you and your brother - of which I am proud to be but a small cog in the great wheel - is conducted in Harad and Khand." The old man leaned back on the cushions, his hand brushing the thigh of one of the slave women.

"True enough, Awidan, but here, though, we must deal with Mordor." Esarhaddon sighed. "It is only by the grace of the Lord of This Land that we are allowed this privilege. Almost one hundred percent of the male slaves are never offered for lease to the lords and merchants. Of those few who are, most are generally employed in the work parties that plant, tend and harvest the crops of the nobles. The Lord of Mordor is most generous when it comes to granting leases for women, though - there, we are entitled to around eighty percent of the wenches to retransfer." The sleepy-eyed Southron signaled for the slaves to refill his goblet. "There is great wisdom in this, for it is an equitable way to distribute those spoils gained in war, as well as reward the faithful. Let us be glad that the Lord of Mordor still allows a form of free trade."

"Of course, Shakh, I am always grateful and pay my taxes and tributes faithfully and on time." Awidan's hand slowly crept up the slave girl's thigh.

"Awidan, let us be glad for the rich lords and merchants of Nurn from whom we make our profits." Catching the eyes of the two striking dark-haired beauties, Esarhaddon smiled lazily at them. Even the slightest upturning of his lips was more than they could ever hope for, and their hearts fluttered in their bosoms at the excitement of being rewarded with his attention.

Only a slight frown showed Shakh Awidan's resentment at the interest his women were paying the other slaver. There was little, though, that he could say or do, for he was employed by the Shakh's trading establishment.

"Shakh Awidan, although all seems blessed and good, rumors have come to me that you have hinted to certain lords that they might buy slaves directly from you, thus saving them the effort of dealing with my brother and me. I am grieved, my friend, I am grieved!" Esarhaddon bowed his head, holding his temples. "Even worse, there have been other rumors, unbelievable intimations that you buy from rebel bands of orcs, using the name of the marketing firm of my brother and me. Of course," he smiled as he stroked a huge signet ring on his right hand, "I do not listen to idle tales."

Awidan's beard bobbed as he swallowed painfully, a worried expression wrinkling his brow. "Never, Shakh, never would I endorse such a crooked scheme!"

"Of course not, Shakh," Esarhaddon's voice rolled out like perfumed oil from a golden phial, "you would never do such a thing... Your wine is very good, you know. I toast your good taste and drink to your continuing good health."

"Certainly, certainly, Esarhaddon. I am an honest man!" Aziru's expression was as offended as a young child who had been punished unfairly.

"Yes, I know you are," Esarhaddon smiled benignly. Suddenly one of his hands shot out across the table, grasping the other man's beard in his strong fist. His eyes wide with fear, Awidan shrieked as Esarhaddon drew a wicked curved dagger and pressed the edge to his throat. Screaming and dropping their fans to the floor, the two women quickly scurried to the other side of the tent.

"Why, Esarhaddon?" Awidan cried, his whole body shaking, his eyes bulging out with terror.

"Because I believe in fair business practices!"

"I am an honest man!" Awidan squealed out his innocence.

"Yes, Shakh," Esarhaddon's deep voice came out in a whisper, "and I want to keep you that way. Any more rumors like that, Awidan, and your wives in Harad will be receiving a special gift from me - your head, prick and balls in a wicker basket." Slowly the edge of the knife trailed across the skin of the underling's thin throat, drawing a slight trickle of blood.

"Mercy upon me, Master, take mercy upon this miserable wretch!" Awidan sobbed, tears streaming down his face.

His dark eyes boring into those of the other man, Esarhaddon held Awidan's face close to his, keeping his grip on his beard. Then jerking Awidan forward as he leaned back, Esarhaddon let the whimpering man fall with a crash upon the table.

"On your knees, Awidan!" Esarhaddon growled. "Kiss the sole of my foot like the dog that you are!"

"Mercy! Mercy!" Awidan cried as he crawled across the floor to the feet of Esarhaddon, who turned up one foot slightly. 

"I want you to understand this, Awidan - I can abide a little cheating, even bribery, but never use the name of Huzziya in any prohibited dealings!"

Perspiration gleaming on his forehead, Awidan knelt on the floor, embracing the other slaver's foot and kissing the sole.

"Go back and sit down, Shakh. You look strained." Disgusted, Esarhaddon slipped his dagger back in its sheath. "And call your wenches. Let them stir the air with their fans; it is rank with the stench of your sweat."

"Anything you wish, my lord! The life of this worthless jackal is yours!" Knowing how close he had come to death, Awidan crawled backwards to his cushion and, shaking, he placed himself back on it. He turned to the two cowering women. "Take up your tasks again, Meril and Lothwen!"

"Yes, O Gracious Lord!" they murmured demurely as they moved gracefully back towards the table. How each one wished that Esarhaddon would kill the doddering old man and claim them for his own!

As they walked, Lothwen whispered breathlessly, "Just one look from his sensual eyes and my loins grow wet! How I wish a master like that owned us!"

"Oh, to have a real man like that make love to us, instead of that whining invalid!" Meril sighed wistfully.

"Shhh, be quiet! We approach them!"

Bowing gracefully, they reached down to recapture their fans, resuming the slow pumping of the handles. As each woman cast sideways smiles to the other, they diffidently dropped their gaze down towards the floor.

"Awidan, I have not quite concluded the discussion of our business, and besides I have neither finished my wine nor partaken of all of the tempting delicacies that you have arrayed upon your table." His eyes sent glances to Lothwen and Meril which brought shivers tracing up their spines, causing the heat which burnt between their legs to flame even higher. "If I had more time, I would enjoy all the sweetmeats that your dwelling has to offer."

"Shakh!" Awidan exclaimed. "All that I have is yours!"

"How generous, my friend," Esarhaddon replied, his heavy-lidded eyes focusing upon the heaving chest of Meril.

Awidan cleared his throat, resigning himself to the prospects of sharing his favorite women. Nervously, he called to the slave man, "Galuech, refill our goblets!"

"Let us finish our discussion, Shakh Awidan lûk-Nysmr."

"As my lord wishes," the older man nodded respectfully.

"We shall have a long, beneficial and profitable partnership," Esarhaddon smiled darkly as he lifted his goblet in the air.

"Yes, my lord, we shall," Awidan agreed, all the while silently praying to every tribal deity whose name came to his mind and hastily adding the Two Dark Gods just to be certain. He licked his dry lips and hesitantly asked, "Is the caravan prepared which will take the Rohirric slave women and children to their destination?"

"Aye," affirmed Esarhaddon. "We await only the completion of the collaring, and then we will be away. But it is a month-long journey to the Doraz Uzg-u Bhoghâtug-ob Turu, the Gate to the Land of Many Blessings. The supply wagons are packed with every conceivable thing we might need, except water. After we cross the Anduin, the water wagons will be replenished. As you know, we must keep a tight watch upon the supply."

"You make a worthy partner for your brother," Awidan flattered, hoping to return himself to Esarhaddon's good graces. He knew though that once the slaver became suspicious of a person, that man would never be in his confidence again.

"Your compliments are sweet words to my ears, Shakh Aiwdan, but now the time has come for me to leave your hospitality and begin the journey." Esarhaddon leaned over the table and picked up a candied date from a tray. "Very good fruit, Awidan!" he exclaimed. "However, you make leaving more difficult."

"Only the best for my employer's brother," he simpered. Then bowing his head, he placed his right hand over his heart and extended it in a rolling motion outward to Esarhaddon. "Take another, take another! And the raisins! Do not forget them! They are succulent and sweet!" 

"There is time for another taste," Esarhaddon smiled as he picked up a date and put it in his mouth.

As Awidan watched Esarhaddon, who seemed in little hurry to leave his tent, he grew increasingly more alarmed. He knew that the fiend was enjoying his discomfort and would stretch out the torture as long as he could. Perhaps he could get the Shakh into a better mood by distracting him.

"My friend, before you leave you can surely tell me how you liked the two wenches I gave you last night?" Awidan stroked his beard, his dark eyes gleaming lecherously.

"Sadly to say, Awidan, though the generosity of your bountiful heart overcomes me with appreciation, neither girl was satisfactory." Esarhaddon sighed heavily.

"Then I will have them whipped!" Awidan exclaimed, raising his fist.

"My good friend," Esarhaddon spoke languidly, "there is no need of that. The girls had only been deflowered the night before, and so they were not welcoming the experience." The tent had become so quiet that the droning of a fly was magnified tenfold. Looking around, the slaver continued. "When I arrived at the tent you loaned me, I was eager for some sport, but the girls shyly covered themselves up. They told me they had not yet grown accustomed to pleasuring men, and even as I undressed, they hid their faces beneath the covers. Perhaps you heard them scream when I widened their newly ploughed channels. Though through it all they lay as though they were dead, when I finished with them, they begged me to stay." The slaver glanced to Awidan, who seemed to be barely breathing, his face a sickly white. "Thus I was cheated, since they received far more pleasure from me than I did with them!" He looked sadly at the other man. "Awidan, you say you consider me as a brother. Why then did you not offer the skilled artistry of Meril and Lothwen?" He winked mischievously at the two women, and the rising and fall of the great feathered fans halted in their courses as the pair tittered.

"Esarhaddon, my friend, I only gave them to you because I thought that you prefer young flesh! Have mercy upon the two wenches and my reputation! I implore you!" Pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve, he mopped his heavily perspiring face.

"Never make the mistake of trying to think for me, Shakh Awidan. When I return, I will try the charms of Meril and Lothwen. Of course," he chuckled, looking benevolently at the older man, "next time you will offer me my choice and not yours." He gave Awidan a stern look, his narrowed eyes glittering.

"Next time, my lord Esarhaddon - I swear to you upon the memory of my ancestors! - I will have women for you that will delight even your discriminating tastes! Women from Far Harad, ebony-skinned, dark eyes glowing with desire! Women from the northernmost parts of Rhûn clad in sumptuous furs and nothing more! Gondorian and Umbarian women with heads held high, haughty and proud of their ancestry, challenging to tame! Icy blondes and warm redheads from Rohan, women with great, bulging breasts and nipples as pink as rosebuds! The mysterious, doe-eyed beauties of Khand whose teeth are like pearls against their tawny faces! The shy, porcelain-skinned daughters of the Golden Lords of the Far East who know more positions than we could ever dream possible! You would think you were tasting the joys of the afterlife while still upon the earth!"

Then as a sudden thought hit him, Awidan shook his head sadly and looked down at the table. "No Elves, unfortunately. They are impossible to obtain, for they are sent straight to the Tower after they are captured. In any event, they die so quickly that they are scarcely worth the effort. As for the women of those small races from the Northwest, few will have them save those with the most exotic of tastes." 

"Perhaps I should delay my trip to Nurn and sample these wonders before I go, but, unfortunately, that cannot be done!" Esarhaddon lamented, rising to his feet. "Now, I must leave you, Shakh Awidan. Should the war continue, my plans are to return here in a few months."

"Farewell, blessings upon you and your house, Shakh Esarhaddon uHuzziya!" the old man exclaimed as he stood up, glad that at last his superior was going. "Before you leave, I will see that an ample supply of wine from my own cellar and assorted sweetmeats from my larder are packed in one of your supply wagons. I even have almonds and pistachios! Take them as a gift for you and your brother. May the Two Lords be with you on your journey and smile upon you!"

Esarhaddon placed his right hand upon his heart and extended it outward towards Shakh Awidan. "May your days be forever and the sons of your loins be without number! Farewell, my friend, Awidan lûk-Nysmr. Until a few months! May fortune smile upon you!"

"May the goods that your caravans hold bring you rich rewards, Shakh Esarhaddon uHuzziya!"

Flashing a smile of perfect teeth, Esarhaddon nodded and left the tent.

When the man was gone, Awidan stared mournfully into his goblet of wine and then turned to Meril and Lothwen. "Since you seemed to prefer his company to mine, I should have given both of you to him," he muttered in disgust. "But," he smirked, "had you lain with him, I do not think that the delicate skin on your backs and bottoms would have remained so smooth and unblemished. They say Shakh Esarhaddon Efendi is a cruel man who enjoys flailing the flesh off the backs of wenches who do not please him!"

"Master," Meril murmured, "I do not think we would have disappointed him."

"No, Master," Lothwen smiled from beneath dark lashes, "the Shakh would have found pleasure in our arms."

"Gondorian strumpets!" Awidan cursed as he slammed his goblet down on the low table, sending a good part of its contents splashing across the table.


	11. An Unwelcomed Edict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

_"The greatest happiness is to vanquish your enemies, to chase them before you, to rob them of their wealth, to see those dear to them bathed in tears, to clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters."_  
      - Genghis Khan

Cursing, the green-clad guard quickly herded Elfhild and Elffled away from the row of pavilions and out to the open area of the slave compound. Chains were snapped into the front and back rings of the girls' collars. Like leashed hounds in tandem, Elffled was chained behind Leofgifu, while Elfhild came next in the coffle. Murmuring softly to herself, the unfortunate Breguswith walked as a sleeper, innocently babbling questions to everyone she saw, until the guards' firm hands guided her to stand behind Elfhild in the long column of slaves.

The design of the system was ingenious, providing for a slave to be removed from the column and the links quickly joined together again. It was thought that this method was merciful and convenient, for each slave would bear only two lengths of lightweight chain, thus sparing the prisoners' necks the burdensome task of bearing one long heavy line strung through the rings of the collars.

The hot summer sun beat down upon Elfhild's shoulders and flamed upon her hair, turning it a glistening cream. She heard the soft strains of Breguswith's humming behind her and recognized the melody as a lullaby, a song sung to the memory of her dead baby. The chain clanked as Elffled impatiently stamped her feet and shifted her body. A subtle vibration coursed from one end of the line to the other as the captives restlessly moved about, unaccustomed to the awkward iron bands and chains about their necks.

Guarding the column were tawny and swarthy men, wearing rich green livery, and fifteen or so half-breed uruks, all armed with both spear and scimitar. None of the men or orcs were in military uniform, though some of the orcs' garments looked to be a mixed collection of well-used jerkins and vambraces of boiled leather combined with mannish dress. About the shoulders of some of the half-breeds were worn and faded cloaks of fine material and well-cut design, gifts, perhaps, from their masters when the garments were no longer of use to them.

"All right, now," one of the guards ordered, "make this line straighter and try to keep your squalling offspring quiet! We await the Slave-master!"

The captives had been waiting about an hour when they saw two horsemen ride up on fine prancing horses of the Haradric desert. One man was mounted on a sorrel and the other, a larger man, rode a chestnut mare. Both horses were arrayed in the brightly colored trappings of the South, the tassels on bridles and saddles bouncing with every hoof fall.

"Bow low to the ground," the guards, both man and orc, ordered the captives, and the women bowed from the waist. "Nar!" the guards bellowed. "The Master will not be pleased at such disrespect. Kneel and touch your foreheads to the dirt! This is the way you are always to bow to your superiors! To do anything else does not show respect to the ones whom Fate has has seen fit to set above you!"

Tied and chained, the women struggled to lower themselves to their knees, trying to retain their balance and keep from toppling over. The chains tugged uncomfortably against their necks, and the captives felt clumsy and awkward. Those children young enough to have been kept out of the cruel bonds hovered about their kindred, trying to assist them as they struggled to do this forced obeisance.

As the two men drew nearer, the guards bowed from the waist and shouted, "Hail, Shakh Esarhaddon and Master Tushratta!"

"Greetings, stout lads," the heavier of the two men called out as the pair halted their horses a short distance away from the end of the line.

From her crouched position upon the ground, Elfhild raised her head to obtain a glimpse of these two important newcomers. Her eyes traveled up the chestnut legs of the horse, then over the saddle of the mare to the powerful rider who sat atop her back. Elfhild's heart fluttered as she realized just what a handsome man this mighty Southron was. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, a man in the prime and height of life. His tawny face was remarkably attractive, with unfathomable dark eyes edged by thick lashes; a majestic arched nose; a small brown mole under his right eye; full, sensual lips; and gleaming teeth white as pearls. Shining with life and vitality, his lush black beard had been trimmed neatly, dressed with perfume and pomade. She noted with almost gasping admiration his wide shoulders and broad chest. How strong he must be! ...And how very, very dangerous!

This devastatingly handsome Southron was dressed in richly brocaded yellow robes; a long, flowing green burnoose with tassels sewn to the hood; and baggy tan breeches. Upon his head was wound a white turban, the end flowing down his back and flapping gently in the breeze. Elfhild's admiring eyes went to the enormous ruby and spray of silvery feathers which crowned the magnificent headdress. Transfixed by the glittering jewel, she gazed at it in awe as it sparkled and glittered in the sun. She had never seen such wealth before, and such a blatant display of it astonished her peasant's mind. At last she wrenched her eyes away from the richly arrayed turban and surveyed the rest of the Southron's brawny form.

Upon his feet were the finest of kid leather riding boots, the points of each gracefully curving upward in the style of the East and South. Hanging from the wide belt at his thick middle was scimitar encased in a jeweled sheath. Elfhild shivered to think what damage that weapon could wreak upon his enemies. Such a blade could surely hew a man in half! Suddenly feeling quite small and defenseless, bound in chains and kneeling in the posture of submission as she was, Elfhild averted her gaze and looked at the great Southron's more modest companion. 

She regarded the other man with far less enthusiasm, for, while the second man was taller, he was a slender, plain sort, not strong and muscular at all. This fellow was dressed far less ostentatiously, wearing a simple brown turban, tan tunic and burnoose, white breeches, and scuffed brown riding boots. Quickly losing interest, Elfhild's gaze returned to the first man - the mighty, robust one - before she lowered her head once more.

"Greetings, fair wenches, well met," greeted the slave-master. "You bowed splendidly, your breasts and foreheads touching the earth, your hair spilling down like lovely golden curtains, and your raised buttocks providing a most delightful initial impression! How beautifully you display yourselves before me! Since it was your first time, I am quite sure that it was difficult to humble yourselves in such a manner. I am pleased. You may rise now and give me a lovely smile in gratitude for this lesson which will benefit you for long years to come."

Resting his hand on the pommel, the slave-master leaned forward slightly in the saddle and watched as the slaves rose to their feet amidst a great clanking of the chains. Elfhild ventured another furtive glance at this powerfully-built man and wondered what sort he would be, whether he would prove kind or cruel. Probably it would be the latter - he spoke with the same mocking arrogance and boastful derision as did all the men and orcs of the Dark Land. Every last one of them took great delight in humbling and disgracing the captives, throwing salt into the wounds inflicted upon their pride by the defeat of the West and subsequent thralldom of its people. Elfhild sighed, feeling strangely melancholy. Why did such a handsome man have to be so heartless?

"Still I am displeased, for there are no smiles to greet your new master!" The man frowned. "I know none of your names as yet, but I will. Know you now that I am Esarhaddon uHuzziya of Harad. I am a dealer in slaves and other goods, holding contracts with the military commanders and the government of Nurn. You are now in the care and keeping of the House of Huzziya. Consider yourselves blessed!" Turning to the other man as though he were an afterthought, the slaver introduced, "This is my personal physician, Tushratta of Khand." The other man nodded to the women.

Esarhaddon's eyes roved up and down the line of slaves, gleaming when he saw a woman or girl who was especially desirable. "We will be journeying to the City of Turkûrzgoi, which is located in the Western Province of Nurn near the inland sea of Núrnen. We should arrive at the city in about a month." The sound of his forceful, heavily-accented voice terrified many of the younger children, who sought the security of their mothers' skirts, burying their heads and clutching the material. Some of the older boys, thinking murder in their hearts, boldly challenged him with their eyes and aggressive stance, but in his gaze they saw only mockery. Turning to the man beside him and saying a few words in the hated foreign tongue, the slave-master laughed. He waited while the guards quieted the slaves with threats and curses before continuing. 

"At this present time, all of you are owned, body and soul, by the Lord of Mordor. However, being generous and far-thinking, He has magnanimously decreed that the majority of you will be leased to the nobles, plantation owners, merchants and manufacturing establishments of Nurn." He paused, allowing the captives to absorb what he had just said. "If you labor diligently and are loyal, willing servants, you might be able to earn enough money to buy your freedom. Once free, there is always the opportunity to become productive citizens of the imperial state. Others of you might find such favor with your masters that they will purchase your contracts from the Lord of Mordor, either keeping you as personal slaves or allowing you to go free. How fortunate all of you are that the Emperor is so generous to the families of those who have stirred up war against Him!" Smiling, he looked over the line of captives, ignoring the low murmurs and hostile glances that met his words.

Turning to the tall physician beside him, Esarhaddon conferred briefly with him before looking back to the captives. As he regarded the women from beneath half-closed eyes, he slowly flicked the tip of his riding crop against his thigh. "We will come to know each other quite well. Until you reach Nurn, I am your master, and you will answer to me before all others. In time, all of you will learn to rush to greet me, and your loving lips will delight to call me 'Master!'"

"Loving lips, indeed," Elfhild whispered the saucy retort to her sister. "Perhaps my lips will call him something, but it will be far from loving. I have no master!" She felt a thrill of excitement course through her at the thought of defying such a powerful man.

Elffled remained silent, still shaken by the horrors which had befallen her in the blacksmith's shed. How could her sister behave so flippantly after all that they had just endured? Those men could have raped both of them, each one taking his turn to commit the vile deed! She did not want to attract the attention of the slaver, who had far more authority than rude guards and loathsome blacksmiths. 

"When I am away, you will yearn to hear my voice. You will feel yourself lost without my embrace as though you had been forsaken in a desert waste, abandoned, cast off, alone." His voice had changed in tone, becoming husky, more sensual, and he flashed them a sparkling grin. "You will hope in your hearts that the silhouette that appears upon the distant horizon is that of your adored master! Your womanly bodies will ache in need for my caresses, and for once in your lives, you will know what it is like to be ruled by a man!"

"What a pompous fool," Elfhild whispered, rolling her eyes at the man's boastful claims. The threat of danger was a powerful stimulant, making her heart race and butterflies flutter in her stomach.

"Please, Elfhild!" Elffled whimpered. "Do not get us in trouble again!"

"Dear priceless flowers of Rohan, Fate has decreed that I am to be your protector for a time. The orcs who will accompany us are the heroic veterans of many battles, and by virtue of the multitude of their injuries, they were decreed unfit for duty. Thus they are now in my employ." A mixture of cajolement and command, his deep voice rang with authority.

Thoughtfully stroking his beard, the slaver closely surveyed the captives. "Some of you perhaps - if your modesty, virtue and refinement can be attested, and if you are of sufficient beauty and talents - might find favor in my eyes and be chosen for my harem. Other women, eager for my plucking, might become overly ambitious and let their jealousy blight their better senses and ruin their chances. Though you might crave my affections, be warned - not all find favor in my eyes. I am most demanding of my women!"

"Arrogant Southron," Elfhild muttered with a haughty toss of her hair. "As if we would want to be anywhere near him!"

"Be quiet, Elfhild!" Bringing her foot backwards, Elffled kicked her sister in the shin. She felt a sense of satisfaction when she heard Elfhild's whimper of pain.

Growing restless, the slaver's spirited chestnut mare pranced and fidgeted, mouthing the bit and moving sideways with the slaver. "Steady, my treasure," he murmured to his mount. A skilled horseman, Esarhaddon soon had the mare steadied with a firm hand on the reins. As though noticing them for the first time, he pointed the riding crop towards a startled Elfhild and Elffled. "Though your beauty is unremarkable, you are still novelties, twins, a matched set of blonde wenches, your kind almost unknown in my land! Many a man would like to have you in his bed for that reason alone!"

At these shocking words, the captives looked to each other, murmuring their displeasure in low voices. The younger children could not understand their meaning, but the older children, having an instinctive knowledge, knew that his words insinuated something dark and perverse. They feared for the safety of their mothers, sisters, and other kinswomen.

"My sister is an idiot," a mortified Elffled thought, the chain the only thing keeping her from running away and hiding somewhere.

Esarhaddon looked down at the twins. "I heard your whispering and your muttering," he remarked in his powerful voice. "Do you think that you might be found worthy to be included in my harem? Do not delude yourselves, my little wildflowers, for only the most beautiful and talented of virgins are taken into my household. If you have spread your thighs for the stalwarts of your own land, there will be other uses for you, which you might not enjoy! Perhaps fate has destined that the two of you spend your days in the brothels!"

Her cheeks flaming and her body frozen stiff and cold, Elfhild gaped up at the Southron, her heart pounding wildly and her aquamarine eyes wide and fearful.

"What are your names?" the slaver demanded, riding his horse closer and lifting her chin up with the end of the bat.

"E - Elfhild," she stammered, struck by a sudden sickening sense of promnesia. She had been here before, in this very same situation... but it had been nearly a month before, and she had been kneeling before a king instead of standing before a Southern slaver.

"My n-name is Elffled, sir," the other sister timidly mumbled, bowing her head and lowering herself in a curtsy.

"Such harsh and grating foreign names! There is no softness to them, no melodic euphony to their sound!" Esarhaddon touched his ear and shook his head. "If you ever find favor with me, you will be given names pleasing to my ears."

From beneath half-closed lids, the dark eyes of Esarhaddon turned from them and surveyed the other captives. The twins breathed a sigh of relief when his gaze left them, and Elfhild cursed herself for her foolishness. She never should have been whispering... she winced when she thought of the stern scolding that she would surely receive from her aunt. But how could she accept her fate passively when every part of her being wanted to rebel against the enemies who had subjugated her and her people, to lash out against the hopelessness and despair that she felt when she considered all that she had lost?

Esarhaddon moved his mare up and down the line of prisoners, finally settling on a place midway between the columns of chained women. He cleared his throat and spoke louder. "Truly I am delighted, most delighted, to make your acquaintance, fine ladies of the North, and I trust our association shall be most pleasant. My men and I will watch over you on the journey and will see to your comfort. We do not expect you to be appreciative, but remember who it is that feeds you!"

A pleased expression highlighting his handsome face, Esarhaddon scanned the line of captives. Tired, restless and frightened, many of the children sobbed quietly. The misfortune-plagued Breguswith rocked back and forth, cooing soft lullabies and mumbling to a son who lived no more. Elfhild sighed as she felt the chain pulling back and forth on her collar as Breguswith moved incessantly. It would be a long day, and she reckoned that her neck would be sore and chafed by the end of it.

"You there," Esarhaddon pointed the riding crop at Waerburh, "what is your name?"

"Waerburh," the startled woman replied.

"Did you have a husband who claims your favors?"

"Yes, I did, and perhaps still do," she returned haughtily.

"No shy, modest maid then!" he exclaimed, his dark eyes gleaming as he appraised her handsome face and full figure. "Married women have knowledge and skills that maidens lack."

"My husband was a brave man and honorable," she countered as she looked up at him, a defiant expression on her face. "And I have been an honorable wife!"

"Any marriages contracted before capture are considered null and void now, and you are accounted as an unmarried woman."

"I will always be married to my husband!"

"Let a past that is dead be forgotten so that you may look forward to the future." He returned to his surveillance of the line.

Slowly the slaver's expression grew stern. "It is my most unfortunate task to inform you that though I am generous and magnanimous beyond all belief, I will brook no disobedience or attempts to escape. Some of the lads have brought their mates with them, and I assure you most fervently that those fine wenches can inflict torments that will make even a strong man quail. They have been trained to employ methods which leave no mark upon the flesh, only painful bruises which fade in time. As a matter of fact, I enjoy watching them as they dole out their chastisements... This is not to say that I cannot mete out my own form of punishment, which, perhaps," a reflective expression crossed his face, "might bring both pleasure and pain to those who receive it." Absently, he tapped the riding crop on the side of his leg.

The slave-master turned his gaze to the uruks and their females. "Do not be humble, lads. Step aside and show off your beauties."

Amid cat-calls from their mates, the she-orcs sauntered forward from the line of uruk guards. The male orcs were ugly enough, but their mates defied the classification of "female." Every visible part of their bodies had been mutilated with frightening piercings or marked with strange and hideous tribal tattoos, and all were clad in a bizarre conglomeration of military uniform and civilian dress, obviously commandeered from a wide variety of peoples. One obese she-orc wore a morbidly hilarious parody of armor which barely covered her massive mammary glands. Her outfit was complete with an embarrassingly tiny leather loincloth which revealed the muscular contours of her beefy, hair-covered thighs. 

A strange and disturbing thought struck Elfhild's reeling senses, driving out everything else that was in her mind: had these loathsome creatures ever known love? Had the orc who slew her mother possessed such a - she could hardly bring herself to think it - mate? She had learned that he was a kinsman of the others in the raiding party, but she had never really thought of such matters before. What if he had... children? What did an orc baby look like? Probably a nasty little snapping thing... but still a baby. Elfhild grieved for her own mother; did an orc woman and child grieve for the raider whom she had slain? Was she guilty of inflicting the same sorrow upon others as the orc had brought her? Was she a cold-hearted killer? Or was she only trying to defend her home?

She must stop thinking about such maudlin things. Of course, they had no feeling. Everyone knew it. They were enemies, and all of them deserved to... to... be exterminated? No! She would never let herself think that. They were thinking creatures - their horrible attire proved that they had individual tastes and preferences - and they had the right to live just as anyone else. Elfhild's musings were interrupted by the hooting laughter of the female uruks as they paraded close to the captives.

"Ooh, dearies, don't be afraid. We won't 'urt you!" One of the female brutes strutted, swaying her hips suggestively, as her harsh, deep voice attempted a coy giggle.

"Don't you think we're pretty?" exclaimed another as she wiggled her hips and squeezed her massive breasts. "Everyone knows we are!"

"She's just jealous of me because I'm prettier than she is," insisted a third, whose ancestry was so muddled with orcish and mannish blood that she appeared almost human. She shot a saucy look towards the captives. "I might be the kinswoman of some of you. Breeding always tells! Just look at me 'air!" Jutting out her ample chest, she raised her arms towards the sky and tangled her fingers in her auburn mane before letting the tresses slowly and sensually fall back down. "My sire was an 'alf-breed from Isengard!"

"Do you see what I mean, women of the North?" Shakh Esarhaddon asked as he motioned for the female orcs to step back into the line. "In addition to their distinctive charms, these formidable beauties are outstanding warriors. Do not attempt to escape. The lads and their mates can smell your trail in a rainstorm. They can see by day and by night, but their eyesight is most exceptional when the shadows fall. When captives try to elude them, it makes them unhappy. They will think you do not like their company." He smiled his mocking smile as he looked up and down the line. "Learn the rule of discipline and we shall all get along superbly. Now it is time for us to be away. Lead them forth, guards," the slaver commanded, pointing his riding crop straight forward towards the road.

"March!" the head overseer ordered. At the front of the line, the guard jerked roughly on the lead chain, causing the two women in front to stumble. As the captives trudged forward, the slaver and the physician watched the sad procession begin another day's slow, dreary journey.


	12. Comforts and Concerns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Elfhild and Angmar

Esarhaddon and Tushratta watched as the long line of Rohirric slaves plodded forward. The few Gondorian man-slaves - collared and chained as were the Rohirric captives - marched under heavy guard behind the Rohirrim. Walking unfettered behind the Gondorian thralls were tawny and swarthy skinned slaves - men, a few women, and boys - undoubtedly natives of the Eastern and Southern lands. These slaves laughed and chattered among themselves, obviously far freer than their Gondorian and Rohirric counterparts. Falling into line behind the long column was a train of enclosed wains, decorated in colorful paints and designs, two of them containing the slaver's harlots and their servants. Coming behind them were the supply wagons and the rear guard.

Satisfied that the column was in position, Esarhaddon and Tushratta urged their horses into a trot and quickly caught up with the line of Rohirric captives in front. Commanding the orcs to halt the line, Esarhaddon reined in his horse and scanned up and down the long procession.

"My fine ladies, the excellency of your beauty has been recognized, and each night, one or more of you will be awarded the high honor of serving me whilst I dine. As yet, I have not made my choice, so there is still hope for all of you. Until then, you may look forward with anticipation to the possibility of being chosen tonight."

Beside him, the physician Tushratta smiled knowingly. A sudden sinking feeling came over the captives old enough to understand. This green and yellow robed Southron was their master, at least for a time, and his control over his property was total. Their life or death he held in his tawny hands, and they knew that many of his designs for them were far from wholesome. There was a sense of finality in each mile that took them eastward, as though they were condemned felons walking the slow march to the gallows. Step by step, each plodding rise and fall of the foot brought them closer to the dreadful doom which lay just beyond the dark forms of the Mountains of Shadow. Slavery and then death. There would be no escape.

Elfhild lifted her head slightly and glanced back at the Gondorian slave men. Tears of sympathy pushed their way up and trickled down her face as she beheld once proud men now forced to toil for those against whom they had fought in the war. Her heart was filled with pity for their plight. What horrible tortures had these conquered warriors of Gondor been forced to endure at the hands of their enemies? The very thought was horrifying, for the folk of the Dark Lands were renowned for their cruelty.

And then the grim question came to her mind - what horrible tortures would _they_ endure? Turning away from the men, Elfhild looked at her sister's back. A gruesome image rent her thoughts: she saw Elffled dying in a dank dungeon, her frail body shuddering in bitter agony after suffering endless disgraces and tortures unimaginable. The vision filled Elfhild with cold dread, for she knew she would be utterly helpless to save her sister from such an evil fate. 

"What would be even worse," she thought grimly, allowing her morbid imagination to take flight, "would be if a kind man bought me, and I spent my days in his hall, doted on by servants and adored by my master, while Elffled languished in some prison, her body racked with pain!" More tears spilled down Elfhild's cheeks.

The previous night's rest had brought little relief for the captives, and they had awakened to sore, aching muscles and stiff joints. Many of the women and children began to limp as the morning wore on. The ill-fitting boots did little to comfort their feet or their spirits. Solemnly they marched, the only sounds being the tramping of their feet, the rattling of their chains, and the irritated reminders from their guards that they were going too slowly.

By evening, they had traveled a weary ten miles. Halfway between Minas Tirith and Osgiliath, the captives were ordered to a halt for the night. The Gondorian slaves were first to be loosed from their chains. Their ankles, though, were kept in shackles to hamper their walking and prevent their escaping. The overseers soon had them working to build cooking fires and fetch water for the pots.

"Move ahead, blonde wenches!" the uruks ordered the Rohirric captives as they herded them into a wide barren field. While some of the orcs guarded the women and children, others moved about the lines, unchaining the captives for the night. The process was a slow one, for there were fewer orcs now than there had been when the captives had been brought South, and many of the guards were busily engaged in setting up camp.

Since becoming prisoners, the captives had grown accustomed to the rhythm of breaking camp in the morning, halting briefly at noon, and continuing on until evening. Now their lives had been turned over to a new power - the Southern slaver and his men. Uncertain of what would be expected of them, the unfettered captives milled around aimlessly, almost like confused beasts. No longer under the steady scrutiny of the soldiers, some of the captives felt frightened, for the almost mechanical routine of their existence had been altered. Their captivity had been grinding, but at least they had known what to expect. Now the great question loomed in their minds - what next?

Fingering the necklace of knuckle bones about his neck, a leering part orc swaggered up to Elffled and released her from the line. Then he turned to Elfhild, bringing his twisted face close to hers as he unbound her hands and unsnapped the chain from her collar. 

"Wait - you forgot this!" Elfhild spat sarcastically, wincing as she gingerly brought a stiff arm upward to point at the band of iron. The day had been an abysmally wretched one in a long succession of miserable days, and her mood was foul. She was weary of being jostled and pushed, poked, prodded and pinched, and now this ugly beast with his revolting breath and snagged, rotten teeth was gawking at her!

"Forgot!" the orc jeered, his yellow eyes flashing. "Forgot nothing! If I took off yours, I'd have to take off the whole lot of them! The collar stays! Don't get high and mighty with me, slave slut! The collar shows who owns you - Mordor - with lease to the House of Esarhaddon uHuzziya. You should take pride that this illustrious House has the use of you."

"I cannot say that any of us are grateful!" Elfhild remarked in her most haughty voice.

Chortling gleefully, the orc looked her up and down, his upper lip curling disdainfully. "If you ain't grateful now, my pretty fine feathers, maybe you will be soon. What you been needin' is a good taste of orc honey shoved in that big mouth of yours to shut it up!" A deep laugh rumbling in his throat, he lunged for her.

"No!" Elfhild shrieked as she darted away, the orc right behind her. Watching helplessly, the other women screamed as the brute almost grabbed Elfhild. Even though the beast was huge, solid and well-built as a wall, his thick legs were still swift. He had almost caught up with her, when the sound of approaching hooves halted him. Reining in their horses, two of the slave-master's green-clad guards glared down at him.

"Galinâth!" exclaimed one of men as he flicked his slave flail at the orc. "You damned fool! Leave the wench alone! She is not for any of your folk, or mine!"

"Master," the orc bowed stiffly, the look of utter hatred and contempt barely hidden in his eyes, "I was just having a bit of fun with the wench! I never meant any harm!"

"Do this again, you damned idiot," the tawny, dark-eyed man growled, "and you will go back to the army, unhealed war wounds and metals be damned! Now go on with you and tend to your own duties!" He kept his scowling gaze leveled at the orc until with a small hiss, the creature inclined his head and lumbered away. Turning to look at Elfhild, the guard's attention slowly roamed downward, concentrating upon her breasts, lingering upon her hips, and traveling all the way to her feet. His dark eyes came back up and met her own and, smiling devilishly, he winked at her.

"Run along now, wench! I have no time to talk with you, but I shall be back later after the supper hour when all of you have been assembled together."

"T-thank you, sir!" Elfhild stammered shyly, curtsying out of respect and gratitude.

"Eat well, slave girl," the man laughed, and the guard with him grinned. "You need more meat to cover your skinny body!"

Touching their spurs to the horse's flanks, the two rode away at a trot in the direction where the tents and pavilions were being erected. Working quickly under the supervision of Esarhaddon's men, the half-breeds had hoisted up the slaver's great green, yellow and black pavilion, with a smaller tent nearby for Tushratta. At some distance from those tents, a campground had been prepared for the guards, wagon drivers, and other servants of the House of Huzziya. Another more colorful and elaborate pavilion had been raised for the pleasure women, who waited in their wains, chattering and giggling and laying wagers on who would be the first to visit them that night.

Elfhild watched as the horsemen rode away, and then it seemed as though her body lost all its strength. A shudder, both of dread and disgust, seized her and she trembled convulsively. After the fit had passed, she sighed heavily in relief. At least the orc had not forced a kiss upon her lips as had the men in the blacksmith's shop! Never had she been kissed by one of those foul beasts, and the thought of harsh, leathery lips upon hers and a thick, slimy tongue moving about in her mouth was enough to make her gag. She closed her eyes, trying to wipe away the impression of the foul brute.

"Elfhild!" her aunt cried as she rushed up with Elffled and Hunig following close behind. Hugging her elder niece to her bosom, Leofgifu clung to the girl almost desperately. "Thank goodness you are all right! We thought that monster would attack you!"

"Are you all right, Hilde?" Hunig asked, tugging on Elfhild's skirt.

Elfhild cast a glance down over her shoulder to her little cousin. "The orc did not hurt me... I was far too fast for him!" She laughed lightly, and when Hunig's worried face broke out into a grin, Elfhild smiled in pleasure.

"Elfhild!" Her aunt's displeased tone snapped Elfhild's attention back to her. "Your foolish prank brought you very close to danger, so do not brag about it!"

"But, Aunt," Elfhild protested, "the guards came just in time. Though they hate the men, most of the brutes seem to be afraid of them." She attempted to brush her aunt's fears away with a blithesome smile and a reassuring squeeze to her hand.

Elffled stood nearby, her arms folded across her chest, silently sulking. She was sick of her sister's brash antics. It seemed Elfhild was determined to get in trouble. Well, that was perfectly fine and jolly if Elfhild wished to get into quarrels with every soldier or guard, but more often than not she had an uncanny penchant for involving her poor twin. "At least I was nowhere around her this time," Elffled thought smugly.

"Please just stay out of their way," Leofgifu pleaded, her thin, square face pinched with frustration and worry. "Do not anger the orcs! You know full well how savage they can be!" Could her reckless niece not learn to temper her rage and resentment for their enemies? She felt like tearing her hair out in frustration. Did her niece ever listen? Leofgifu highly doubted it. She kept warning the girl, but her words kept falling on deaf ears. Sooner or later Elfhild would learn to keep her mouth shut, and Leofgifu feared it would not be from her admonitions and entreaties.

"At least there are fewer of the monsters now." Elfhild attempted to change the subject; perhaps her aunt would forget that she was displeased with her, and instead rail about the hated, loathsome orcs. At least she could hope so.

"Enough about them!" Leofgifu snapped, easily seeing through her niece's subtle ploy. "You should have learned after what happened in the blacksmith's shop today. Do not provoke fights with either man or orc! We are naught but chattel in their eyes, and they can do to us what they please - whether it be to punish or to kill." She feared for her headstrong niece's safety, for luck would not always be in her favor as it had been today. Losing its irritated edge, her voice grew more urgent as she spoke. "Elfhild, I beg you never to anger them again, for our days upon this journey may be the last ones we shall ever spend together. When we are sold as slaves in Nurn, we might be sundered from each other forever, our fates lying with different masters. We must make the most of the time we have yet remaining."

"No!" Elfhild whimpered, the tears springing up in her eyes at the reminder of that terrible truth. How she dreaded that day - so much so that she tried to pretend it would never come, that the journey would last forever and they would never arrive at their destination.

"Please do not speak so!" Elffled cried, clutching at her aunt's arm.

Hunig looked between the grown-ups, her large blue eyes filled with fear, her lips trembling. "Oh, let us not talk about bad things!" 

"No," Leofgifu managed a wan smile, "we will think about that day when it comes."

After the initial shock of the destruction of their villages and their subsequent capture had passed, these horrible fears had slowly crept up upon all of the captives' minds. The present, even though it was miserable, offered far more security than did the future. If the women thought too much of the days to come, then they would have to consider the grief of separation from their children, kinswomen and friends. Nurn would be a place of great sorrow, even if they had the good fortune to be bought by compassionate owners.

When the captives had completed the evening meal, they were escorted to the latrine pits which the Gondorian slave men had dug earlier. While by order of the Southrons, the uruks had to turn their backs while the women answered nature's call, they were all lusty fellows with robust appetites. More than one of them felt the aching throb in his loins at the sound of the golden showers which fell like gentle rain. Though the whole business was humiliating, the captives had learned to endure. After relieving themselves, they were again formed into a line and taken to the area where they would make their beds on the ground that night. There they were ordered to stand in rows for assembly.

Riding up, two horsemen reined in their mounts between the two rows. Elfhild recognized them as the guards who had earlier saved her from embarrassment at the hands of the orc. Both were plain, ordinary looking fellows. The one who had talked to her earlier, a tawny, scowling fellow whose forehead was creased in a deep frown, had intense dark brown eyes which were further accented by the kohl which lined them. While he sported a thick black beard, his companion, a man in his forties, was clean-shaven except for a mustache. The setting sun glinted off the golden earring which adorned one of his large ears. As she looked at the two men, Elfhild wondered why she felt a twinge of disappointment that neither was the handsome, though insufferably arrogant, Esarhaddon uHuzziya. She chided herself for such an abhorrent thought, and made a silent promise never to think such a thing again.

"Attention!" the surly one commanded. "I want complete silence among you!"

The cowed captives would give him no argument at that. Hushing their offspring, the women waited for the Southron to speak.

"I am Ubri uMandum," the tawny-skinned man announced in accented Common Speech, "captain of the guards of Esarhaddon uHuzziya." The man's solemn brown eyes did more than hint that he was one who would countenance no disagreements. "I have a number of announcements." He looked up and down the line of captives. "The first is that tomorrow we shall reach the Anduin." He scowled when he heard the protesting murmur of the women. "Silence!" he grated out harshly and waited for the low din to die away. "We will camp tomorrow night by the river. You might be happy to know that before we cross the Anduin the next day, you will be allowed to bathe and wash your clothing in the shallows of the river. Sufficient quantities of olive oil will be provided to rid yourselves of the vermin that infest your hair."

Glancing at the women, Ubri read the reactions in their faces. Some looked at him blandly; others flushed with shame; a few did not bother to hide the hatred in their eyes. "In a few weeks' time, you will again be given the oil to destroy any of the nits that have hatched. While many of you might not be accustomed to cleanliness, we are a fastidious people, and we insist that our slaves adopt our customs." He waited until the women had fully digested his words before speaking again.

"There are more announcements... When the need for clothing arises, you will inform your guards of your needs. They will see that you draw garments from the supervisor of supplies. Many of you wear cloaks which are hot and stifling. After today, you will turn them in every morning." Some of the women turned to their fellow captives and grumbled. One shouted out, "You are not taking my cloak!" 

"Silence! Be still, or I will have you whipped for such impertinence!" Ubri ordered, shaking the slave flail threateningly. "You will receive them back at night when you need them. We are going to a place where it can grow cold very quickly when darkness covers the land."

Many of the women nodded their heads up and down, relieved at what they considered a small concession. Some were plainly pleased at the thoughts of baths after so long. Almost a month had passed since they had last bathed, and the reek of their bodies was a constant insult to their nostrils. Others among the women were convinced that these acts of kindness were some kind of treachery. This man's pleasant words were designed to make them feel safer, so they would let down their guard. These devils were indeed sly, and they must be careful lest they be seduced by the wiles of the enemy!

Ubri went on. "Should you or your children become ill, let this matter be known to one of the slave boys. The physician Tushratta can attend to your ailments and injuries..."

Ubri's eyes rested somewhere above the women's heads as a slight flush covered his tawny face. "When the... sickness of women comes, you are to bring this situation to the attention of one of the slave boys. You need not be embarrassed, for they have no interest in women. They are all eunuchs whose male organs have been removed. A boy will take you to the tent of the Master's women, and those ladies can assist you." He cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed. "These are all the announcements, but you are to remain here, for the great Shakh wishes to speak with you. I bid you a pleasant evening."

With a relieved expression upon his face, Ubri turned to his companion, and the two of them quickly urged their horses into a trot. The women tried to keep their silence, but after such momentous announcements, they found they had to bite their tongues to keep from talking.

The captives waited nervously as darkness began to fall over the camp. Soon after the horsemen left, the captives saw torches approaching from the direction of the pavilions. Growing apprehensive as the figures drew closer, the women recognized the Southron slaver, accompanied by four of his bodyguard. Fearfully they remembered what he had said earlier, and each woman worried that he would choose her. As the men led the way with upraised torches, Esarhaddon strolled among the women, pausing from time to time to talk to one who caught his interest. 

After he had inspected all of the captives, touching one woman's hair, one woman upon the cheek, another upon the breast, he pointed at Waerburh with his riding crop.

"You have been chosen to spend the night in my tent. Rejoice! Fate has smiled upon you!"

"No!" Waerburh screamed as two of Esarhaddon's guards clasped her by the shoulders and forced her away.

The slaver turned in a circle and gestured the crop towards Aeffe, a pretty girl with reddish blonde hair. "Though second in my choice, I do not find you less appealing than the other," Esarhaddon murmured seductively. "Your moon-shaped face is exquisite. Will you fight me, too?" He smiled, his hooded eyes raping her body.

"No, my lord." Aeffe looked down demurely. "What good would it do me?"

"None, my little beauty." He lifted up her chin with the tip of his riding crop until he was looking into her eyes. "None at all."

Esarhaddon thoughtfully considered the remaining women, stroking his beard before resting his chin on his hand. "You!" He turned a quarter circle and the riding crop pointed in the direction of a young woman named Frithuswith. "With your pale face framed by your luxuriant blonde hair, you are like a pearl in an encasing of gold."

"No!" the girl shrieked. "I will not go with you!"

Two more guards stepped up, and, placing their hands upon her shoulders, they dragged the trembling girl away.

"Fortune's choice has been made," Esarhaddon announced dramatically, "but the rest of you should not lose heart! The journey is long and there will be many other evenings when I crave to have beauty with me. Then I will call the fortune-favored ones to grace my tent, and perhaps warm my bed. I bid you all pleasant sleep. Come, lovely one," he looked to Aeffe, "follow three paces behind me as is proper for a woman to do." Smiling, the slaver took his leave of the horrified captives.


	13. Desperate Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

A dark cloud of unease hovered over the women's hearts as they watched the Southron slaver's men lead Waerburh, Aeffe and Frithuswith away. This was the first time that any of them had been seized and carried off to appease the savage lusts of the men of the enemy. Before the captives had been turned over to the command of the Haradric slavers, the army Directives had been their only salvation from such shame. Now they had no protection at all. This Esarhaddon uHuzziya was, in all truth, their master, at least for the remainder of their journey to Nurn. As their master, it was his just right to commit any atrocity he pleased against them.

Now the captives had a whole new set of captors to whom they must become accustomed. Gone were the hideous orc soldiers and the Khandian cavalrymen, replaced by Haradric slavers and their employees who had altogether different goals and motives and who were not held subject to the military Directives. The captives were confused and disoriented by the upheaval caused by Esarhaddon uHuzziya's arrival. Oh, curse this horrible Southron who had dared challenge the delicate balance of things!

It was inevitable that this day would come, but the women had not expected it to arrive so soon. During the days of the military Directives, they had thought that they would be left untouched until they arrived in this strange land of Nurn, so far away from their own. None of the captives had realized that their fears would come to pass so quickly. The long journey had lulled their minds into a tenuous complacency, and they had taken a strange sense of comfort in the repetitiveness of each miserably long day upon the trail. At least they knew what to expect. Some had even grown accustomed to the orcs, and the snarled orders which every morning brought - "Rise, you damned sluggardly wenches!" - were just as familiar as the cock singing out his dawn-song. Like Leofgifu, other women took solace that each day on the journey meant another day with their loved ones, and they counted themselves as blessed to have only that much.

Though it was indeed most peculiar for the proud-hearted people of Rohan, a goodly number of the captives actually looked forward to the future. The arrival in Nurn would at last bring an end to this seemingly endless journey, and then their fates would have some resolution. Even though this would mean separation from their kin and friends, their minds could not help but make an attempt to adjust to this grim reality. Many of the women and maids had begun fantasizing about their future masters. 

What would these men be like? The masters of their dreams were superbly handsome and shamefully wealthy, the lords of great halls and the owners of many herds of horses, cattle and sheep. Some were strong and brawny warriors with kind hearts made of solid gold, while others were soft-spoken poets who were well-versed with the art of words and the intricacies of the matters of the heart. Of course, in these fantasies, the women designed the masters to their own specifications, and they commanded the will of their lords as queens rule lowly servants.

Many a maid pined for the Khandian cavalrymen, those dashing riders who now made their way, ironically enough, to the northern front, where they would engage in battle with the young ladies' own kinsmen. These girls consoled themselves with the promises of their tawny-skinned swains that someday they would come back to rescue them from their lovesick anguish.

Were these ladies committing irrevocable transgressions by harboring such notions? Were they damning their immortal souls to some ignoble fate for possessing sentiments other than hatred for their enemies? Were they to be counted as traitors, betrayers of king and country? But, really, what had they done? What oaths had they broken, what secrets had they revealed? They knew nothing, and nothing was asked of them. Their own submission would do naught to aid the enemy, only make life more pleasant for them.

Was it wrong to feel confused and disoriented at the absence of the horde of army orcs who had driven them so far eastward, and miss the gruesome faces of their tormentors? Was it unforgivable to miss the riders of Khand, who guarded them so vigilantly, keeping the wild tempers of the unruly uruks calm and cool? Was it evil to feel security in subjugation, to feel an unspoken bond with one's captors, to feel affection for them... even love?

Or perhaps these strange fancies went beyond loyalty to country and family, and were instead instinctive urges to survive, which had been ingrained in the minds of men since they first awoke in the East? Was not the primary urge to survive, to live, in spite of everything else, a quality that transcended national or tribal loyalties? Great battles waged between the immortal powers of Good and Evil seemed far away when viewed on the everyday plane of pain and existence.

Such concepts of "enemies," "lesser men," and "barbarians" seemed to fade away when captors showed mercy to their helpless charges. Deep in their hearts, the captives knew there would never be any return to the old ways; they had only today, and maybe tomorrow. Their very existence depended upon how they appeased their captors. These sentiments were especially true among the young, who had their whole lives before them. Their short years had not given them enough time to be completely inculcated into the intransigency of cultural mores and political beliefs.

How many children over the countless centuries had been kidnapped in raids by rival tribes, and in time grew to be just like their enemies, looking to their former captors as fathers and elder brothers? How many women had been taken hostage in raids, forced to become the wives or mistresses of the men of the enemy tribe? Among some peoples, capturing a bride was even part of the established wedding ritual, for the abduction severed the bonds between the woman and her people and gave her a new people to consider as family.

Still, there were those among the captives who remained defiant, those who had not given wholly over to despair or the hope of a future beyond all this. Some held to rigid ideals of good and evil, and in their minds, they considered themselves as among the righteous because of their unyielding resistance. Others simply hated every man or orc of the enemy because of the ruin which had befallen their land. 

Goldwyn, the widow of Fasthelm of Grenefeld and the mother of three sons, hated the orcs and the men of the dark lands with a deep and abiding hatred. They had robbed her of her husband, a crime and loss which she would neither forgive nor forget. She had little sympathy for those whom she considered weak. The girls who had been so eager to accept the treats and conversation from the Khandian cavalrymen were silly little fools worthy of nothing except scorn. She had expected then that more than one of them would fall victim to the seductions of the cavalrymen, but any such follies had been prevented with the departure of the cavalrymen.

Now three of their number had been forcibly seized to spend the evening with the slaver and his men. None of the women - save for Breguswith, who was beyond any rational thought now - had any doubts in their minds as to what vile use to which they would be put. They would all be ravished and brought back in disgrace, and the next night he would pick three more, and the next night... If the plans she was beginning to formulate in her mind yielded fruit, there would be no next night - at least not for some of them.

She looked across her troop's campfire and saw many fires glowing in the night darkness. Fritha, her youngest, lay with his head in her lap, while Frumgár, the second, tossed small twigs into the crackling fire under the watchful gaze of his elder brother, Fródwine.

"Mother," Fritha looked up at her solemnly, studying the shadows along the side of her face and under her chin, "why did the bad men take those three ladies away? Will they hurt them?"

"Be quiet, Fritha," Fródwine interrupted. "You ask foolish questions." Often his youngest brother's questions did not irritate him that much, but Fródwine knew that his mother was upset about the abduction of the three women. He did not want Fritha's idle questions to worry her any more than she already was.

"Not so foolish, son," came Goldwyn's quiet words. "You have seen what the evil men are capable of doing. They might very well hurt those ladies terribly!" How could she explain the concept of evil to a child so young as Fritha? Did she even want to attempt to make sense of a concept that baffled the wisest? But sometimes the young comprehended instinctively far more than the wisest did in their deepest contemplations.

Frumgár tossed another twig into the fire and turned to his mother and brothers. "There is no use in fighting them, is there, Mother?"

"Of course there is!" Fródwine shot back, scowling. "But you have to do that when you have a stout sword in your hands!"

"We do not have swords." Fritha rolled off his mother's lap and into a sitting position. Looking up at her, he leaned his head against her shoulder.

"We have legs," Goldwyn reminded her sons.

"We are going to kick them?" Fritha asked, puzzled.

"No, son," Goldwyn whispered. "We are going to use our legs to run!"

"I cannot hear you over here. What did you say?" Frumgár turned his attention away from the fire.

"Sons, it is time for you to go to bed. I will tell you a secret then."

"A secret, Mother!" Fritha exclaimed eagerly as he looked up at her.

"Yes, a secret just among the four of us, but we will have to be very quiet while we talk."

"We will, Mother, we will!" Frumgár and Fritha echoed in chorus. Fródwine glanced at his mother, doubt and questions written on his face.

Fritha moved aside from his mother as she rose to her feet. Brushing away the dirt that clung to her skirts, Goldwyn took the hands of her youngest sons and walked away in the direction of the slaves' sleeping area. Though she told only a part of her plan to the two younger ones, she related the full conspiracy to Fródwine. When she had finished speaking, she returned to the fire and sought out Leofgifu. If her plan were to work, she needed the support of the other women. Since she had spent the past month in close quarters with Leofgifu, she decided she would consult with her first.

"Hunig is already asleep?" Goldwyn asked softly as she took a seat beside the other woman. Her gaze went to the little girl who lay beside her mother, her slight form wrapped up in a light coverlet.

"Aye, the child was exhausted and never complained when it was time to sleep. Yet I cannot find rest!" Leofgifu wrung her hands in despair as she looked to Goldwyn. "My thoughts are filled with worry for Waerburh and the other women. How could any of us rest when three of our number are being raped right as we speak?"

"How could any of us have rest when our country is being reduced to rubble?" Goldwyn asked, carefully playing upon Leofgifu's statement. "Sleep eludes us when we must sit here helplessly and watch as we are disgraced one by one!" She noted with some annoyance that the Eadbalding twins, who were perched on a large, flat stone nearby, had stopped their idle chattering to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"But what can we do about it?" Leofgifu looked to Goldwyn, her words almost a challenge. She did not really want to become the second party in yet another purposeless conversation filled with woe and self-pity over their dismal plight. Nothing good ever came of such talks; they only made the situation worse and wasted time.

"We can attempt to escape!" Goldwyn's voice was just a little above a whisper.

Excited at the prospects of escape, Elfhild looked eagerly between the two women as they spoke. Oh, could they really break free of their captors after so long? Her heart leapt in her chest, but she kept a respectful silence, waiting with baited breath.

"That is impossible!" Leofgifu exclaimed, drawing back in horror, her slate blue eyes revealing her alarm. "They will kill us! There is no cover under which to hide, for the months of darkness blighted all the trees. We would have little to sustain us on the journey; not even a single berry grows in that wasteland. And if we were able to return to the Mark, we would be walking into the midst of the enemy's army!" She could not believe what she was hearing. Had captivity been so devastating for Goldwyn that she had gone insane, losing all reason? She was no fortune teller, but she knew that nothing good would come of this absurd scheme.

"No, they will not kill us," Goldwyn admonished, shaking her head. "The worst they will do is beat us, for we are far too valuable to kill, and even if we die in the attempt, it is better than to live in slavery!" She held her head high, her chin set resolutely.

"Goldwyn," Leofgifu's voice trembled, "this is madness! We would be endangering ourselves and our children, and for nothing. I cannot be a part in this!" Bringing a trembling hand to her temple, she shook her head slowly back and forth.

Goldwyn grasped Leofgifu's arm as her eyes searched hers. "I have counted ten of the green-clad guards and about thirty half-breed orcs. There might be others that I have missed. I am uncertain how many drivers and other servants there are, but even considering them, there are far more of us than there are of our enemies. If we work together, at least some of us might be able to escape."

"Even if some could manage to escape, they would die of starvation in the wilderness," Leofgifu warned gravely. "It is better to stay here where there is food, and be thankful for the remaining days we have with our families and friends."

"Leofgifu," Goldwyn growled, her voice urgent, "I have thought of nothing but escape ever since we were captured, but whilst we were so heavily guarded, there was never an opportunity. My sons and I have been hoarding every scrap of food that we could spare. The recent rains will soon bring forth the wild onions and greens, and we can live on that, even mushrooms." 

"Please do not do this, Goldwyn!" Leofgifu's eyes pled with hers, but when she saw the wild, unreasoning zeal in Goldwyn's turquoise orbs, she knew she could never dissuade her.

"My course is already set, and whoever is courageous enough to go with me and my sons, I welcome." Goldwyn's voice was filled with ice. She was disgusted with Leofgifu, whom she considered had given into the hated enemy. How could she be so complacent, so accepting of her fate? She drew her hand away from Leofgifu as she looked past her towards the twins. "Are you game to hazard this, Elfhild and Elffled?" She raised a haughty eyebrow.

"This will never succeed," Leofgifu shook her head sadly, her gaze pleading with the twins not to listen to Goldwyn.

"I think it could," Elfhild proclaimed boldly. She had been listening intently to every word which had been exchanged between the two women, and her heart beat faster as each one of Goldwyn's words conjured up visions of daring escapes and grand adventures. Oh, how she wanted to help! She hoped that her aunt would change her mind and agree to this brave plan!

"But what if we are caught?" Elffled ventured timidly. "Are you sure they will grant us mercy? The cruelty of the Haradrim is known by all!" A shudder of dread ran down her spine and she rubbed her shoulders as though she were cold.

"Only a fool is harsh to a horse that leaves the pasture to search for greener fields, and these men are no fools," Goldwyn admonished, her voice condescending, for she despised cowards. "They plan to sell us for profit."

"How do you propose that we escape?" Elfhild asked eagerly.

"Remember what the slaver told us this evening." Goldwyn looked into the face of each of the three women, her eyes boring into theirs. "Tomorrow we reach the Anduin and the next day we cross over to the eastern shore. Once we pass over the River, there will be no return. Tomorrow night after the slaver and his men are asleep - for even devils must slumber - we will flee, each one and her children. After we have eluded our captors, we must journey west towards the mountains, for doubtless many of Gondor have taken refuge there, far from the reach of the enemy. Perhaps we can find friendly folk who will aid us in our plight and guide us back towards our homeland." Her gaze settled on Leofgifu. "Those who do not wish to attempt this journey will raise a great hue and cry. When the guards are distracted, the rest of us will flee in different directions. Leofgifu, though you are not going with us, will you help us in our escape?"

"Aye, that I will do," Leofgifu assured her. Though she did not approve of Goldwyn's plan, she would never betray her and turn her over to the slavers, although she probably should for Goldwyn's own good and that of the other captives. "I will let out such a scream that it would wake the dead, and then I will pull my hair and race about as though I were mad! I know many will reject the idea of escaping out of fear of repercussions, but still they will be sympathetic. Before you make your attempt, I will see that word reaches the other women and they will put on a show such as these Southrons have never seen. They will be unrecognized in the dark and do not stand so great a chance of persecution."

"Thank you, Leofgifu," Goldwyn smiled and patted her shoulder. At least such weak women would have some use in her scheme.

"But I fear you will fail," Leofgifu spoke dourly as she looked up at the night sky. "The moon is in the first quarter, and his light is far too bright for comfort."

"Perhaps the skies will be cloudy," Goldwyn replied undauntedly. "This is our last chance." She turned to the twins. "Elfhild and Elffled, I have noticed all evening that many of the women have been allowed to move about freely in the camp. The slavers do not exercise such a careful watch as did the soldiers. I am going to tell the other women. Will you go with me and spread the word?"

"I would do so gladly," Elfhild replied eagerly. Turning to her aunt, she added, "With your permission, of course." She gave her a pleading look.

Leofgifu sighed heavily, her breath rushing out in a loud gush which seemed to make her thin frame appear even more gaunt. "Well, you will be safe within the bounds of the camp, and this would give you a chance to see old friends once again. You may go, but I still think that this venture is folly."

"Thank you," Elfhild exclaimed, pouncing on her aunt with a sudden hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Please reconsider your decision not to adventure this attempt," she pled gently. "I do not want to think of you and Hunig being led off into slavery while we go free!"

"I will think upon it," Leofgifu murmured softly. Oh, by the Gods, no! This was not happening; Elfhild was not actually thinking about running away! Surely she would come back to her senses!

"I will talk to you later about this matter, and try to convince you then," Elfhild exclaimed, the cheerful sound grating in her worried aunt's ears. "We both need your advice and help as we travel towards our homeland!" Smiling, she rose and looked down at her sister. "Elffled, are you coming with Goldwyn and me?"

"My mind is unsettled about this whole affair," Elffled mumbled glumly as she flicked a piece of dirt from the underside of her boot. Everything was happening so fast. She could barely comprehend it all. She just felt numb... and nauseated.

"Please come along, Fleda," Elfhild begged impatiently. "Let us take advantage of these new freedoms which have been bestowed upon us. It has been ages since we saw any of our friends!" Her lower lip quivering, she looked to her twin with large, pathetic eyes which were filled with pleading.

"Oh, very well." Elffled shrugged her shoulders despondently and then slowly stood up. This was not how she wanted to reunite with old friends from the village... she would much rather talk and gossip than plot foolish escapades.

"I will go to those troops positioned to the south and east of us," Goldwyn explained, pointing about the camp like one of the marshals of the Riddermark. "You, Elfhild, go to the north, and Elffled to the west. Talk to those women whom you know to be leaders in the troops, and when you do not know who they are, ask. Tell them that this will be the first and only time this plan will be announced and they must decide amongst themselves who will go and who will stay. Press upon them that Leofgifu has promised that she and other women who will not be making the escape attempt will raise a stir and a distraction, screaming and pretending to be mad."

The sisters nodded in acknowledgement that they had absorbed this information, and then the three set off on their quest. Elffled was loath to approach total strangers and announce to them the intricate details of a conspiracy about which she had many fears and doubts. What if everyone laughed at her and scorned her for even talking about such a foolhardy plot? What if they started asking complicated questions which only Goldwyn could answer? Grumbling to herself, she mumbled out the details of the escape plan. Finally, another woman far more brave than she volunteered to be the messenger, and Elffled gladly relinquished the unwanted task to her. 

It was with excited anticipation and breathless tones, though, that Elfhild relayed these tidings to the women. She took delight in being the bearer of such important news and thrived in the sense of danger and intrigue. This was a perilous quest, doomed, perhaps, to failure, but she felt more alive than she had in months, her senses besotted by pure terror and the thrill of escape. A rush of exhilaration coursed through her body as though in her veins wildly blazed a fire, burning away the withering taint of despair and captivity. She only prayed that her aunt would relent and agree to flee with her and the other women.

Far in the east lay the vague outline of the looming Mountains of Shadow, undiscernible in the darkness but still ever present. On the other side of those craggy peaks lay the Nameless Land, the realm of Mordor, an evil place so dreadful that most in the West would not dare to call it by name. Only a few nights remained ere the captives entered that realm of horror and slavery, perhaps to disappear forever.

Desperation and fear drove the captives, and for quite a few, fool's hopes overpowered wisdom and sensible thought. There would be only one chance to escape, to try to flee to freedom, ere they crossed the Great River and the black mountains swallowed them up forever. Many of the women would adventure such an attempt, whether their decision would prove in the end to be for good or for ill.

Two hours before dawn, sleep-starved eyes turned questioning glances towards the flickering torch which approached through the darkness. Led by a swarthy guard, the three who had been taken held to each other, murmuring and sobbing. Two staggered slightly as they walked, their gait wayward. A male voice, almost jaunty, spoke too loudly...

"Look upon your companions, women of Rohan! They return to you unharmed, only bettered by their experience. The Shakh trusts the remainder of your night will be spent pleasantly!"

The man turned and the torch flickered away in the darkness towards the slaver's pavilion.

The unasked question - "What happened?" - created a mighty soundless roar that echoed throughout the camp, but the sound was choked by tears.


	14. Rohirric Roses Among the Thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Elfhild  
With Assistance By Angmar

As soon as the women were certain that the guard was out of hearing range, many of them leapt to their feet and clustered about Waerburh, Aeffe and Frithuswith. Murmuring fretful reassurances, solicitous friends  led them to a blanket spread before a cheerfully crackling fire. Both Aeffe and Frithuswith stumbled slightly as they walked, causing some to fear that they had been beaten.

"Will you tell us what happened... we can understand if you are unable to speak of the horrors..." Serious concern mingled with a perverse curiosity as the three women were bombarded with questions. Their eyes downcast, Waerburh and the two others were hesitant to begin speaking, for their minds were left bewildered by the barrage of desperate inquiries.

Her back towards the fire, Goldwyn stood and faced the women. "Tell us what these barbarian fiends did to you! We are your friends and can commiserate with you, for undeniably we will face the same as did you!" She looked to Aeffe and Frithuswith. "Why do you limp? Did they hurt you?"

"No," both women shook their heads.

"Did they--" Goldwyn began, but was interrupted.

"They did odious things!" Waerburh cried as she clenched her right fist into a ball.

"What! What!" the women urged, their voices sounding a little too shrill and eager to hear the dreadful news. Unwilling to miss anything, they pressed closer to the three lambs who had been returned to the fold.

True it was that the women were very concerned for those of their number, but they welcomed any little bit of gossip to help relieve the monotony of the journey. They prayed that the women had not been raped or injured horribly, but the report of a few inappropriate touches and improper words would satisfy their need for titillation. The Khandian cavalrymen were long gone, and with them went the harmless flirtations and the forbidden candied fruits which had caused so great a stir among the ranks of protective matrons. Now that was old news, quick to be forgotten, and the Southron slaver provided them with far juicer gossip than the cavalrymen ever had.

The women were also looking for more excuses to rebel against their captors, for they wished to bolster up their courage and alleviate any doubts concerning this foolhardy escape attempt. Many were hesitant and fearful of risking their lives in a mad flight and then embarking on a journey into a blighted wasteland. There was nothing like an outrage to inflame their passions and spur them on to action. It was the stiff drink of mead that a timid rider drank in the early morning hours ere charging off into battle.

"Did they touch you?" one of the listeners asked, both dreading to hear that that the men had handled them, and yet hoping to be told a torrid story that ended well. 

"Of course they touched us! They are men!" Waerburh retorted, as though even the most simple-minded should know the answer to that before the question was asked.

A gasp resounded throughout the throng, and many hands flew up to gaping mouths or clasped pounding bosoms.

Her eyes blazing with anger, Waerburh lashed out in an angry tirade which surprised the other women, for she had always seemed a very calm, quiet sort of lady. "I feel close to swooning when I think of those horrible swarthy-skinned men with their lust-maddened, flashing eyes; their appalling noses, shaped like the beaks of eagles or bulbous, swollen knobs; their grease-covered beards; and their strange, colorful clothing, akin to the wear of jesters! Oh, they are terrible men!" Distraught with the memory of her experiences, Waerburh shook with horror, her fists clenching and unclenching.

"Let us be calm," Goldwyn advised, though she felt far from serene herself. Shaken by the vehemency in the other woman's voice, she forced herself to remain composed.

Aeffe, the youngest, spoke up excitedly. A bubbly girl of fifteen summers, she was eager to be the center of attention. "I can tell you what happened!" she exclaimed, her words running together. "As they dined, the slaver and six of his men lay about on the floor like dogs--"

The women looked at each other, incredulous at this revelation. "Dogs?" several asked in unison.

"Aye, dogs!" Aeffe exclaimed testily, feeling challenged. "These Southrons behave at times like most uncivilized people. When they eat and drink, they are too lazy to sit on benches or chairs, instead preferring to lounge about on the floor, as though the very effort of sitting up would slay them with exhaustion! The legs of their tables are made short so that they can dine in such a slovenly fashion. This makes their furniture resemble children's toys."

"Children's toys?" one woman repeated dubiously, never taking her eyes off Aeffe.

"Aye! That is what I said!" Aeffe replied churlishly. "Do you not believe me?"

"Aye," the other woman replied, not quite sure if she really did or not.

An offended expression upon her face, Aeffe folded her arms across her chest. "Well, if you do not believe me, I will speak no more of it!" She tossed her reddish blonde hair defiantly. There was nothing quite as irritating as trying to tell a story and constantly being interrupted by naysayers.

"No, no," a frustrated Goldwyn cajoled. "Please continue with your account!"

With a slight huff, Aeffe elaborated. "When the guards first took us to the pavilion, the slaver and his men were not there, and we were met by one of his servants. This was a young man who appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen years of age. He was one of those black men with skin as dark as the night. There was not a sign of a beard upon his face, and his skin looked to be as soft as that of a maiden's. He had a waist and hips like a woman, and his voice rose high."

"What did he do to you?" another woman demanded, her voice filled with suspicion.

"Yes, yes!" the women echoed. "What did he do?"

With another indignant toss of her head, Aeffe replied, "He did not touch me, if that is what you wish to know!" She wanted to scream, "Quit thinking such prurient thoughts, you dirty-minded old cows!" but she held her peace instead and went on with her story. "He instructed us to bow low to the ground when the slaver arrived - as we were told to do yesterday. Then he directed us to keep our eyes downcast when the slaver and his men were present; not to smile or laugh, for that would be considered forward; not to speak unless we were addressed, for that would be considered most discourteous; and how to serve the men their favored draughts."

"Is that all he did?" one woman asked, a note of disappointment in her voice.

"Yes, that is all he did!" Aeffe shot back. These awful women actually wished that something horrible had happened to her so that they could fill their meaningless hours with gossip! How their idle little minds loved indulging in perverse fantasies! How could her own countrywomen be so heartless and base?

"And then what happened?" Goldwyn encouraged her.

"I have talked long enough..." Aeffe muttered sullenly. "No one seems to believe me anyway, so I will keep silent now." Pouting, she folded her arms tighter across her chest. All they wanted to hear was a juicy tale.

"I am sorry you feel that way." Goldwyn's blue eyes held a hurt expression as she turned from Aeffe to Frithuswith.

"All that Aeffe has said is true," Frithuswith interceded, coming to the defense of the younger woman. "The half-man - for that is what he is, a gelding - was polite, almost formal with us, and kept his distance. I could tell you he was a monster - which might make my story more exciting - but would be untrue." The young, unmarried daughter of a nobleman, Frithuswith possessed a graceful, dignified manner, and prided herself on her honesty and objectivity.

Unlike many of the women, she had been educated by tutors and could read and write. She had always enjoyed reading histories which told of dealings with folk in faraway lands. Now here she was, telling about the unique customs of a strange and alien people. Aside from the alarming circumstances, she felt as though she were some great explorer who was regaling an eager crowd with fascinating tales of his journey.

"Then after the eunuch had told you these things, what happened?" a puzzled Goldwyn asked.

"The men were served their supper by their servants," Frithuswith explained. "They ate this meal upon the low table as they lazed about, leaning against cushions. Their table manners are impeccable, far more genteel than the habits of some buffoons I have seen in our own land. When they had finished their meal, the Southrons dipped their fingers in bowls of perfumed water held by the servants and waited as their fingers were dried. These Haradrim take great pride in their cleanliness." She paused, observing the small audience's reaction, and then continued when she deemed they were showing her the respect she deserved.

"After the meal, servants carried in large trays of desserts. There were confections of the lightest consistencies, as delicate as the down from a thistle; others, thin and crisp and covered with the seeds of poppies and other seeds with which I am unfamiliar; I believe they called them sesame. Some were covered in sticky icing and filled with the most delicious flavors of fruits. There were wafers that melted in the mouth, and some sort of cracker that when, first tasted, was overwhelmingly salty, but, after being swallowed, left a taste of honey in the mouth. When the men had eaten all they wanted, the master slaver bade us to take what we wished while they drank a strange black frothy liquid in tiny cups. The draught - which they said was called 'coffee' - was much too potent for any of us, so they allowed us to drink tea or water instead." Frithuswith surveyed the throng of women, her haughty eyes narrowed somewhat, challenging anyone to gainsay her.

"Were you not afraid of being poisoned?" a young maid, who was enraptured by her story, spoke up hesitantly. 

An indignant snort from Waerburh drew all eyes to where she sat. "No, my dear child!" she interjected, her face twisted in a wry smile. "Why would they wish to do that? Our bodies are worth far more to them alive than they are dead." The woman looked towards the fire. "Go on, Frithuswith. I did not mean to interrupt."

A hush fell over the crowd as Frithuswith resumed her tale. "A strange thing happened after that. At the conclusion of the meal, the men rose to their feet, and the servants rearranged the cushions around a table at one side of the tent. The master slaver commanded all of us to take a seat on the pillows beside each one of the men. Then they brought in those... _things_." She wondered how she would ever explain _this_ to these superstitious, ignorant peasant women. She did not even understand it herself.

"Things?" an incredulous cry rose up.

"Aye, things," Aeffe interrupted, her youthful impetuosity overruling her manners. Earlier she had been angry and disgusted at these women who seemed unwilling to believe her, but her temper had cooled off. She never stayed irate at anyone for long, and besides, many of these women were old enough to be her mother. She was sure they were so ancient that they had forgotten what it was like to be young.

Flipping her hair back, Aeffe looked around, and when no one said anything, she cleared her throat and continued the story. "These things were dragons - most unusual dragons, not those you hear about in stories. You could see right through them to their bowels, and there was nothing there, save for churning liquid that bubbled and hissed like the brew in a cauldron. The beasts were long and thin and smoke puffed out through their nostrils, which were located on top of their heads. Each one had a long, twisting tail, like a serpent." She stretched her hands wide, illustrating the length of the strange appendages. "The men grasped the beasts by the tails as the monsters twisted and writhed and spat smoke into the men's mouths." Aeffe looked away into the crackling fire, a dreamy expression upon her face. She heard several of the women's low mutters, but she ignored the old busybodies.

"Aeffe, dear, is that all?" Goldwyn encouraged her.

"No, certainly not," the girl replied, shooting Goldwyn an irritated glance. "I was frightened of the little yet ferocious looking wyrm, for its breath combined with the smell of the braziers and choked me. The man beside me, who is named Inbir, took a goblet of wine from the table and brought it to my lips, reassuring me that this draught would bring solace to my inflamed throat. When he encouraged me, telling me that the serpent would bring me no harm, I gathered my courage and held the creature by his tail and drew in his heady smoke. I held it in for a few moments, as Inbir had instructed, and then exhaled, releasing the smoke in a great cloud."

The women looked to each other in amazement, unable to comprehend anything of what Aeffe had spoken. "Is the girl drunk?" a formidable buxom matron whispered to the woman beside her, who shook her head and whispered back, "That I do not know, but something has certainly affected her reason!"

If Aeffe heard them, she gave no indication, for she was reliving the evening in the slaver's tent as though it were happening at that moment. Shaking her head to clear it, her sweet, young voice continued. "Gradually I was overcome by the most blissful of languor." Closing her eyes, she sighed at the memory. "All fear of the dragon and the slavers left me, and to me they began to look pleasant, especially Inbir, who is the most remarkably kind fellow. As I looked into his handsome face, my lips were drawn to his, and I felt consumed with the most felicitous of feelings. He has the most gentle touch, and his voice is deep and soothing..." She smiled in the darkness, dreaming of the young Southron who was in Esarhaddon's employ.

"Scandalous, brazen hussy!" many of the women condemned her in their minds, but not to her face. "The little wanton, she has become a common whore, allowing them to corrupt her virtue! What would her kin think of their pampered darling now?" The captives could scarcely account that they had heard her words correctly, and all began wondering whether Aeffe had fallen under the influence and control of a great sorcerer who had charmed her out of her wits, or if she had merely been seduced.

"Aeffe!" Goldwyn exclaimed as she bent down and took the girl's hands in her own. "Please, dear, I think you should rest now! You are quite distraught!"

"Yes, perhaps that would be best." Aeffe looked up into the face of Goldwyn and giggled softly. "I would like to think more about the dragon... and Inbir."

"Here, child, let me help you," Leofgifu volunteered, her heart aching with sympathy for the poor deluded girl. She knew that many of the women would think ill of Aeffe's infatuation with a man of Harad. How could the girl have been so foolish as to admit such a thing before all the other women?

"Poor, poor Aeffe!" Goldwyn lamented as she watched the motherly Leofgifu lead the girl away.

Frithuswith huffed, "I scarcely see why all of you are so bewildered, for Aeffe spoke truly. At first I thought she had been besotted upon the wine which she had drunk, but I was wrong. My mind was greatly relieved when Ubri - the man who was sitting beside me - assured me that the dragon had bestowed upon Aeffe a vision. His head wreathed in the sweet-smelling smoke, Ubri then lifted up the drake's tail to my lips. I felt no fear of it, for no harm had come to Aeffe by handling the creature. I had the most wondrous sensations of peace after that." Her voice trailed off as she stared wistfully into space. She remembered the sensual feelings which had rippled through her body when Ubri cupped her breasts in his strong hands and covered her lips with his.

Goldwyn was both furious and disgusted. "Frithuswith, there was no dragon! Can you not see what these men have done to you?" she exclaimed angrily. "The two of you were bewitched by spells and potions! They are all sorcerers and skilled in administering the most baleful poisons! Please, Frithuswith, you must rest, for you are surely babbling nonsense!"

"Back in the Mark, none of you would have dared talk to me like this, for I am the daughter of a lord!" With a disdainful "hmph," Frithuswith reproachfully looked down her long, slender nose at the other woman. "I am not babbling nonsense, but I will take my leave of you now and catch such sleep as I can before dawn. Good night to you all." Rising to her feet, she stalked away.

"Waerburh!" Goldwyn clenched her hands in anger and frustration. "What madness is this? What has befallen them? Have these despicable Southrons bemused them with spells or potions? Everyone knows that they all are sorcerers, evil men of the cruelest and basest of intents!"

"Goldwyn, take no thought that this thing Aeffe and Frithuswith have described is a dragon; it is some device of the cruelest and most devilish of cunning," Waerburh announced gravely as she looked around at the circle of women. "The chamber - which the Southrons call its 'bowels' - must dispense some rank poison that makes the mind murky and lays a cloud of darkness over the powers of reasoning. That is my only explanation for the power of this fiendish apparatus."

Looking at one another, the women slowly nodded their heads up and down, murmuring their agreement. More than one of them concluded, "Poor Aeffe and Frithuswith! They have allowed themselves to be deceived!"

"I almost wish now that I had been intoxicated by the vapors, for perhaps this would have blunted the pain," Waerburh stated quietly. "I can claim neither bewitchment nor drunkenness as my excuse, but rather fear." Her bluish gray eyes clouded over with shame and anger.

The other women murmured in sympathy, for they knew that the moment that they had dreaded - and longed for - had come.

Her eyes glittering with suppressed fury, Waerburh spoke in a cold monotone. "The master slaver commanded me to sit by his side, and as soon as I had sat down, he began to take liberties with my body. The accursed smoke billowed all around us, perfumed with the scent of flowers. His men took no heed of us; they were too involved in their own pleasures." A flush colored her face and neck, and she let out a long, jagged sigh. "At first he was gentle with his kisses, but then his brawny paws groped my breasts and touched me in places - oh! - he knows all the places that can drive a woman mad! A rogue's look of lust upon his face, he pulled me into his bed-chamber and pushed me down on the couch." Tears sprang to her eyes, and she tried to push them aside with her knuckles. Looking away briefly, she was silent, trying to find the strength to continue.

"I pled with him to spare me this humiliation, but he only laughed and told me that if I did not obey him, that he would beat me. Soon he had me stripped, and I lay there on my stomach, naked and ashamed, almost senseless with fear. He called for those devils, his eunuchs, to bring him heated oil. While two of them held me down, the slaver applied this warm unguent to the lowliest place of my most intimate of regions, using his finger to massage the oil deeply within me. I fought, I swear I fought! But what could I do at the mercy of men so strong?" Wild-eyed, she looked around at the group, hoping they would show understanding.

A low rumbling of voices rose up among the crowd as the women expressed their horror and anger at what had befallen Waerburh. Praising the Gods, each one was thankful that it had not been her upon the slaver's couch.

After wiping her eyes on her sleeve, the distraught woman continued. "The slaver used me in debauched ways which are quite opposite to the natural way between a man and a woman! Perhaps he felt guilty at what he was doing, for he attempted to calm me by soothing words. He promised that if only I would submit to him, he would lead me into a new realm of pleasure that would bring delight to us both. Oh, he is a devil, and told me that I could derive great bliss from this new experience; that the oil would be a balm to my unused path; and if I would only calm myself, that I would know little distress. But I could not bring myself to yield to this outrage, and I struggled against him for as long as I could. My whole body recoiled at this disgrace, and I screamed in agony as his forceful invasion threatened to tear me asunder!"

"By Béma!" one woman moaned. "The man is a depraved fiend!"

"In all my years," exclaimed one shocked older lady, "I have never heard of such an abhorrent practice!"

"These Southrons are truly wicked, their perversions without end!" cried another.

Throwing her hands over her face, Waerburh sobbed mightily, her shoulders shaking. "He called this manner of fornication the 'Merchant's Way,' for a man could work his will with a woman with little likelihood that his seed would be planted within her belly. He explained to me, though, that virgins are most usually the victims of such loathsome debasement, for if a young maiden's flower of chastity is defiled, she will not be worth as much at the slave market." Choking on her tears, Waerburh coughed and sputtered out, "The slaver told me that sometimes a man will take a woman in that vile way even if she is not a virgin, for the more humble of the two passages is the one which is tighter." An anguished wail tore from her lips. "Never have I hated anyone so much as I hate this man! Oh, I am so ashamed!"

Shaken, Goldwyn pressed a hand to her pounding heart. "None are safe from his mad fancies!" she spat out the words through clenched teeth. "We must escape these barbarians!"

"Aye, and quickly!" Waerburh nodded tearfully. "For if we do not, all of us will be forced to suffer this humiliation over and over!"


	15. Sunset on Osgiliath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild 

Even though there was some time remaining before dawn, many of the women felt that sleep was impossible now that they had heard the revelations of Waerburh, Frithuswith and Aeffe. While some lay down by their slumbering children, others huddled about the campfire and continued talking until the light in the eastern sky denied them any further opportunity for rest.

Most of the captives were dubious of a successful escape, but the bolder ones vowed that they would at least venture an attempt. The timid ones, who quailed at the mere thought of challenging the strength and might of the slavers, pledged at least to assist their friends and kin. Secrecy was of the utmost importance, and so the women had decided the discussions would not commence until all of the children had fallen asleep for the night.

A horn rang out, its melodious strains summoning the captives to form into troops and line up for breakfast. Holding their bowls in their hands, the women and children looked into the dark faces of the slave boys who doled out their morning portions of rice and lentils flavored with strange spicy essences so unlike those of the Mark. Those women who were firmly set in their hatred of their conquerors scowled at the boys. Many of the boys returned the women's frowns, though others smiled, flashing their pearlescent white teeth.

After the breakfast was completed, the captives were marched back to the area where they had slept for the night. Formed into lines, the women were soon coffled together. The demand - "Move forward!" - was shouted by the guards, and the procession was put in motion.

That morning, the slaver was late in leaving his tent. When he finally emerged, the lascivious Southron was followed by a lovely woman of light beige complexion. Her lustrous black hair glowed in the sunlight, the raven tresses in sharp contrast to the brilliant hues of the dress which she wore. With neither a word nor a glance at her, Esarhaddon mounted the chestnut mare held by a groom. Inclining her head in obeisance towards him, she murmured, "Master, may Fate favor you and bring you quickly back to my arms." When he had ridden away, she turned and walked on slippered feet to where the column of wains was waiting for her. 

Catching up with the column, the slave-master and his servant Tushratta passed by the marching captives and kept traveling eastward along the road. Waerburh looked up at them as their horses trotted by and fixed a gaze of intense hatred upon the men's backs. The captives were more than relieved that the men had advanced on ahead. After the rape of Waerburh, even a casual glance from the slaver would send feelings of panic racing through the hearts of many women. They felt as though they were on the brink of a precipice which would drop them into a pit of scented, silken debauchery from which they would never escape.

Aeffe was not so certain that she would object to sliding into that bed of perfumed rapture. Now even a fleeting thought of Inbir could set her heart pounding, her cheeks blushing, and a nagging ache growing within her virgin depths. Though she could not speak a word of it to the other women, she secretly hoped that Inbir would buy her, take her in his strong arms, kiss away all doubt with his full, sensuous lips, and carry her away to his couch of love. Ah, he had filled her mind with such romance that now she felt as though the exotic South had bewitched her very soul!

When they later returned to the column of marching captives, Esarhaddon and his physician turned their steeds and rode beside the captives. They held their horses' gaits to match the slow cadence of the marching feet, sometimes halting their mounts so that the slaver could watch the parade of the wretched. As the women walked by him, the slave-master's gaze languidly roamed over them, his eyes following the soft profile of the women's breasts and the contours of their curvaceous rumps. Often he and his servant would talk in Haradric, the strange yet melodious tongue of the South, as the slave master pointed with his riding crop to one matron or maid who had captured his fancy. This unwanted attention caused many a gentle face to turn crimson in embarrassment. 

There was no denying that Esarhaddon made a striking, handsome figure on his horse, and many of women did not consider that his tawny features were quite so barbaric as they claimed they were to their friends. Even his strange garb of turban, flowing cloak, tunic and baggy trousers and riding boots flavored a yearning for the unknown, the forbidden and the exotic.

Having been born into a horse culture, the women appreciated that the Southron was a capable horseman and rode his chestnut mare with an easy grace. The horse was a fine one of obvious good stock, though not as good, of course, as those of the Rohirrim. The mare was sleek, well-groomed, without blemish, and of a more delicate build than that of the Northern horses. Her face tapered down to a sensitive muzzle so refined that it could have easily fit into a cup - a Southern horse, native to the deserts and bred for speed and grace.

As the captives plodded towards their destination, they tried not to look at the slave-master, for his eyes were dark and fierce and quick to catch the impetuous glance of a maiden. His eyes had the look of a rogue, filled with mischievousness, even devilishness, with a slight touch of cruelty that seemed to lurk somewhere deep inside them. He was surely not a man who would take well to being disobeyed; that was obvious in the arrogant way he held his head and the cocky air which was natural to him.

In late afternoon, away in the distance to the east, the captives could see the ruins of huge structures, the remains of a great city where once the kings had ruled - Osgiliath, steeped in its traditions, and home to no one among the ranks of the living. The waning sun looked deeply between the moss and lichen covered girders, but could do nothing to dispel the shadows that lurked under broken and tilting roofs. 

As they drew closer, the slaver halted his horse while three of his men joined them. Speaking in a boisterous voice, Esarhaddon pointed his riding crop ahead to a ruined structure which still held some degree of form in its aging deterioration.

"In that place reposes what remains of the King's House, and over there," he gestured, "is the Great Hall of Osgiliath. However, as you can see, no king rules here now. He has passed his scepter to the birds and beasts who are regents and reign here! Perhaps the ghosts of Isildur and Anarion, the sons of Elendil, mourn the loss of their city even unto this day!"

Casting furtive glances about their surroundings, the column passed them by and marched on. The Southrons scarcely looked at them, talking among themselves in that manner which curious travelers everywhere have when visiting a quaint landmark of the past.

After a short march through the city, the half-breed orc guards commanded the slaves to halt for the night. Waiting with the other women to be uncoffled from the line, Goldwyn thought she felt eyes upon her. As she glanced up, her eyes met those of the slaver. Becoming angered at the bold expression on his face, Fródwine looked from his mother towards the slaver and then stepped protectively in front of her. 

"Stay away from my mother!" he ordered with all the bravado of reckless youth.

Amused by the boy's defiance, the slaver chuckled softly. "Lad, are you the warrior of the family?"

Coloring at the question, Fródwine kept his gaze bored on the slaver. "No, sir, I am a boy, not a warrior, but I will fight for my mother and my brothers."

"A little rooster whose spurs are scarcely more than nubs!" the slaver laughed. "Lad, come now; do not be so hostile. Would you rather fight me or sit upon my horse?"

"Fight you, sir!"

"Fight, lad? What foolishness is this?"

"No, foolishness, sir, but should you think to harm my mother, I shall surely fight you!"

"Instead of a tussle, we shall speak of things more pleasant. I have a son who is a few years younger than you, and he appreciates good horseflesh, hunting and hawking... What is your name, lad?"

"Fródwine."

"I take it that the lady is your mother, and the other two are your brothers."

"Yes, sir," he replied. "She is my mother, and these are my brothers, Frumgár and Fritha." Fródwine tried to keep from gnawing his lower lip, a habit he had when he was tense. He wished he had a sword, and gave the slaver his fiercest look, frowning as he drew his lips into a tight line. 

A small smile played across Esarhaddon's lips as he looked at Goldwyn. "And you, Madame, what is your name?"

"Goldwyn, sir." She knew she must not appear overly defiant, for that might bring even more of his unwelcomed attentions upon her family. The planned escape attempt, too, hinged upon her, for she was the instigator of the desperate conspiracy, and she must do nothing that would jeopardize the chances of the captives. Already Fródwine's boldness had aroused the slaver's interest.

Esarhaddon repeated her name several times. "You were given an appropriate name, for your hair is like spun gold reflecting in the sunlight. Doubtless a kiss from your fair red lips would taste as sweet as the richest of wine." The slaver turned to the nearby guard. "Release the woman! I wish for her to walk with me."

"No, sir, please!" Goldwyn felt dizzy with alarm, and in an attempt to calm herself, she concentrated on the horse's fine-tooled leather bridle and the thick red tassels which dangled down from the reins. "My sons are weary and hungry. Please allow us to go and eat."

As the guard unfastened the chain from Goldwyn's neck, she saw her eldest son looking at her, his eyes filled with confusion and anger. She sent the boy a warning look, but he only stared at her, his fists clenching. 

"Dear lady, no one refuses me, so a protest serves no purpose." The slaver smiled to her, his dark eyes gleaming with an interest that made her shudder. He was quickly off his horse, giving his reins over to a waiting groom.

Knowing his mother was upset, Fritha began wailing as Frumgár's eyes begged his young brother to be quiet. Fródwine clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He was close to hurling himself against the slaver when his mother clasped her hand upon his shoulder.

"Please, son, we will be all right."

Fródwine turned to his mother. "I do not like this," he spoke in Rohirric.

"No trouble, son! Please, no trouble!" she implored him in their language. "Just do what he says and perhaps he will go away and leave us alone. He has done nothing overtly threatening."

"Yet," Fródwine muttered darkly, holding his tongue. If only he were a few years older!

"Now, Madame," the slaver murmured smoothly as he took her by the elbow, "I would be pleased to show you and your sons about the dead city."

"Yes, my lord. My sons and I will walk with you," she told him in a voice that was edged with ice.

Fródwine glanced again at his mother, and he could see by the intractable look in her eyes that he would be a far wiser lad if he obeyed her. There was nothing to do now except stroll with the horrid man and pray that the interval would be brief and that they would soon be released to go back with the other captives.

Leading her around broken pieces of marble, the slaver steered Goldwyn towards a crumbling building. Trailing behind them, all three boys marveled at the destroyed splendor, and each tried to imagine what this stately wreckage once contained. Fródwine, though, scanned the ground for a shard or fragment of marble in case he would need a quick bludgeon.

Esarhaddon sensed unasked questions and answered them. "Since this decaying shell is on the perimeter of the city, perhaps it once held a guard tower, but there is so little remaining that it would be only a guess. I have been told that the library at Minas Tirith contains the early history of the builders of this city," the Southron remarked jovially. "Boy," he looked over his shoulder at Fródwine, "can you read?"

"Yes, sir, some... in my own language."

"A good thing to know, boy." The slaver nodded his head. "Now what you need to do is learn all you can. Someday, if you are diligent and apply yourself to your studies, you might become a scribe."

'Yes, my lord," Fródwine replied sullenly. A scribe! Let this fat fool think what he wanted! The boy hated reading and writing. Warriors did not need to know how to read and write! All they had to learn was the skill of the sword, the axe, and how to fight with the eóred. 

Satisfied with his answer, the slaver motioned them to follow him. "The widow is quite appealing," he thought to himself, wondering how her silky golden hair would feel when he ran it through his fingers. Even though she was not so young as he would have preferred, still her figure had not gone to fat, her breasts were full and did not sag, and her buttocks was nicely rounded in a pleasant, matronly sort of way. A handsome widow, she was a woman to be appreciated.

"What is the purpose of parading through these buildings?" Goldwyn asked herself. "Does he seek to make light of my sons and me?" Nervously, she moved her fingers to her lips as she felt her already sweat-saturated armpits exuding even more moisture. She could barely withstand the reek of her own body. She thought with sudden amusement how at one time her state of filthiness would have caused her to be horribly embarrassed. The idea made her feel suddenly giddy. Now what did it matter if she smelled like a sow in a wallow?

"Madame?" the slaver was asking her. "Are you ill?"

"What a foolish thing for him to say!" she thought. 

"Ill, sir?" Was she actually laughing? "Probably no more ill than any other slave who had been marched for days with little rest and less to eat might feel in the company of one of the men who holds her future in his hand." She waited for his reaction. Would he strike her? Would he hurt one of her sons? Would he flail them all with the riding crop which he used so expertly and take fiendish pleasure in driving the lot of them through the ruins? 

Her mood of hilarity began to be overwhelming. Goldwyn wondered if perhaps now the strain of this unholy march had finally penetrated so deeply into her mind that it was shattering her wits and driving her mad.

"Then, Madame, I am glad that you are no worse off than any other," he replied dryly. "You are a saucy one." He sounded admiring as he clenched her elbow tightly.

"No better or worse than any other slave, sir." Saucy? she thought. How absurd! I am terrified of him!

"Mother," Fritha tugged at her skirt, "is the bad man going to kill us?" He spoke in Rohirric, for he knew little of Common, and his words were asked with a trembling lower lip and eyes close to tears.

"No, son," she replied comfortingly. "I do not think he is quite that evil."

"Madame, I do not understand your tongue, and unless your young son can speak none other, I require that you speak Common Speech so that I may understand."

"Pardon, sir. He speaks very little of any other language."

"Then he may be forgiven, but he should either learn not to repeat this error in the future, or keep silent."

"Sir, he is but five." She turned and looked into the slaver's dark eyes.

"The son of a beautiful mother," the slaver's deep voice rolled like distant thunder in her ears. "How lovely she is!" he reflected. "How fair is her skin; the blue of her eyes, like gems of turquoise! Such delicious frowning lips, which beg to be kissed until they gasp in rapture!"

Goldwyn flushed, her eyes unable to meet his. "Sir, it is growing late. My sons should not miss their meal. Please allow us to go back."

"No, there is more that I wish to show you. Lads," the slaver gestured towards the rubble, "explore this place while you have the chance, and have no concern for your mother. I give you my word of honor that she will come to no harm with me."

"If you break your word, sir, I will kill you!" His fists clenched, contempt and hatred on his face, Fródwine quickly stepped in front of the slaver and his mother.


	16. A Stroll Among the Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

_"Then Osgiliath, which in the waning of the people had long been deserted, became a place of ruins and a city of ghosts."_  
\-- The Silmarillion, "Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age," p. 297

A furrow creased the slaver's brow, a warning sparking in his eyes. With a shrug, he casually tossed off the boy's remarks. "Then my life is safe, lad, for I will not break my word. But a bit of advice - never make threats that you cannot carry through. Now go and play," the slaver motioned towards the ruins.

"He is mocking me!" Fródwine thought. "We both know that there is naught that I could actually do to him. One shout from his mouth and his guards will set upon me! I must hold my temper, for the sake of Mother and the sake of the escape attempt." Close to crying in rage and frustration, Fródwine struggled to control his emotions, his fists clenching and unclenching. Uncurling his fingers, he forced his hands to hang loosely at his sides.

"I will be watching you, so make sure that you keep your word!" Turning on his heel, Fródwine stalked away, calling for his brothers to follow him.

Goldwyn looked down into the frightened eyes of the younger boys. "Go, sons; I am in no danger," she directed them, her words a little too brave. She certainly did not feel courageous. Everything about the slaver intimidated her. 

The two younger boys looked questioningly to her mother. With a nod from her, they followed their brother. Goldwyn forced herself to smile reassuringly as she watched the boys walk towards the ruined columns, slanting girders, and crumbling towers. Exhaling, her shoulders relaxed slightly. At least there had not been any trouble.

She looked to the side, seeing Esarhaddon's face in profile. He was grinning, an appealing grin - if it had been on the face of any other man. She had to admit that he was outrageously handsome, even in spite of his tawny features and his strange clothing. He was not so tall as a Rohir, but he was well-built and muscular with a broad chest, his strength apparent in his strong grip on her arm. He smelled of horse, dust, some exotic Eastern spice, and permeating it all, a deep scent of masculinity.

She quickly turned her eyes away from his, forcing them to stare into the deep shadows gathering under toppled statues and slanting columns. A most peculiar thought slowly began to worm its way into her consciousness. She was sure that she saw a set of pale white eyes peering out from the gloomy darkness beneath a collapsed roof. The glowing orbs seemed to be following her movements intently, watching her with a feral, hungry gleam, like some wild beast that was starving. In spite of the warm afternoon sun, Goldwyn felt chilled to the marrow. She dared glance into the murk again, but she saw nothing. Shivering, she tried to brush the strange, unreasonable dread from her mind.

"It is just my imagination!" she told herself. "There was never anything there!" The imposing presence of the slaver had set her nerves on a raw edge, and that was all there was to it!

"Are you cold, Madame?"

"Aye, I was chilled to the core at the thought that you and my son might come to blows."

"Your elder son is a brave lad, lady, but recklessly foolish. Fear not, though. If he behaves himself, he will come to no harm." Abruptly, he asked, "Are you a widow?"

"Yes, I think so," Goldwyn murmured softly. She let her fingers trail along a fallen, moss and lichen encrusted pillar, reminded of the ghastly piles of bones upon the fields of Pelennor. "This place has the memory of death about it," she mused to herself, "the musty smell that seeps from an old barrow which has just been reopened."

"Then I suppose your husband died in the usual fashion... noble, brave, unyielding, refusing to surrender. Of course he would!" Esarhaddon exclaimed in mild sarcasm. "Could he do anything less?" he asked as he led her around a pile of rubble.

"That was uncalled for, sir," she snapped in indignation. "He would neither surrender nor flee." She would show this callous villain no visible signs of the grief she felt whenever she thought of Fasthelm, her husband.

"Truly, it was poor manners on my part to say that." He patted her hand conciliatorily.

"Sir, what is your purpose in insisting that we take this walk with you?" Goldwyn turned and looked him in the face.

Esarhaddon smiled. "To enjoy the company of a beautiful woman, Madame."

"You do not even know me!"

"I will," he chuckled as he pulled her forward.

Up ahead of the slaver and Goldwyn, the brothers' attention had been captured by the toppled life-sized statue of a cavalryman and his horse. During some long past catastrophe, the rider had been toppled from his steed. The statue's once proud marble neck had shattered upon striking the ground, the head rolling some distance away. The tall riderless horse tilted bizarrely. The wreckage would have been far too high for the boys to climb, had it not been that the rider had landed conveniently close. Fródwine hoisted Frumgár and Fritha upon its back and then scrambled up behind them.

"The Southron does not seem so terrible," Frumgár whispered to Fródwine.

"You are so trusting, little brother!" he muttered dourly. "Just you wait! He will show his true colors soon enough!"

Since the death of his father, Fródwine, the elder at eleven years, had felt a great responsibility for his mother and brothers. Fródwine had no idea why the hated slaver had singled out his mother, his brothers and him to torment. Certainly nothing such as this had happened to them on the journey south. "Just go away, you bastard, and let us depart in peace!" he thought angrily.

While his brothers played on the horse, pretending they were riders of the Mark, Fródwine watched the slaver lead his mother towards them. His blue eyes flashing in cold fury, he vowed that if the slaver tried to harm her, he would pick up a shard of marble and bash in his brains.

Esarhaddon and Goldwyn passed by the statue of the horse, their words just out of the range of hearing. Apprehensive, Fródwine whispered to his brothers that they should catch up with them. He slid off the horse first and helped them down.

Frumgár and Fritha, both very small among the towering stone giants, were frightened of their formidable surroundings. "Fródwine, I do not like this place!" Frumgár declared. "It would make a good hiding place for orcs!"

"I am afraid of the ghosts!" Fritha whined, sucking his thumb.

"Fritha," chided Fródwine, "you see dragons and monsters everywhere! Do not be such a baby!"

"I do not see them everywhere!" Fritha retorted, stomping his foot.

Esarhaddon and Goldwyn halted at the carven feet of what had once been a great statue of a warrior clad in full battle array. Without giving her the opportunity to protest, Esarhaddon lifted Goldwyn up and perched her atop a leg of the image. Fródwine gave him a disapproving look but remained quiet. The slaver beamed a smile to the three boys as they climbed up the stone leg and sat beside their mother. 

"Madame and your fine lads, perhaps you would be interested in knowing that here, long ago in the year of 3320 of what is called the Second Age, the realm of Gondor was formed. That was a very long time ago, and now sages and scribes in the West reckon that the world is in the declining years of the Third Age. Time is dated differently in the South and East, usually beginning at the end of the first year of the reign of a king, or some other great event.

"Soon a new age will dawn and be unlike any that has ever been seen before! The men of the South and East will have much to do with the instrumentation of this new era of peace and abundance. We will no longer be ridiculed by the Gondorian imperialists and called 'lesser men!' Our voices will never again go unheard!"

Bristling, Fródwine challenged the man. "Sir, how can you make such extravagant claims!"

"Because they are true," the slaver stated flatly.

"No, they are not true!"

"Boy, the courses of Destiny have changed in the favor of others. Accept what has been ordained. You can do naught about it." Esarhaddon's voice was patronizing, which only irked the boy more.

Fródwine was about to give an irate reply, but Frumgár interrupted him with a question. "What toppled these great statues?"

Although Fródwine fumed silently, Goldwyn sighed, relieved that he had not brought doom down upon himself. She gave her eldest son a warning glance, which he caught but looked away.

"Perhaps this one fell in the year 1437 of this present age during the Civil War, or Kins-strife, as the Gondorians call it, when King Eldacar of Gondor was besieged here by rebels. The king's son, Ornendil, was slain during the fighting. The once great Tower of the Stone of Osgiliath fell and the magic stone that was kept there was lost in the River." Esarhaddon leaned against the plinth which once had held the statue of a young Gondorian prince. He applauded himself that he could remember enough of the infidels' history to impress his reluctant guests.

"Bad, bad men!" his eyes wide, Fritha exclaimed in the few words of Common that he knew.

"Bad men?" questioned Esarhaddon. "You judge too quickly. His own subjects were probably pressed too far by the tyrannical King Eldacar and in anger rose up against him. A man named Castamir took over the kingdom and ruled from Pelargir for ten years before Eldacar defeated him."

Caught up in the slaver's tales of daring deeds, Frumgár asked excitedly, "Then what happened? Was there a great battle where many men were killed?"

"A great plague and many battles, but there is no time to go into all that if we wish to return before darkness falls," Esarhaddon replied. "While the dead city is silent in the daytime, it is told that when the shadows of night thicken, the city becomes alive once again with the ghosts of its former occupants. Of course, I do not believe such tales, and I would advise none of you to believe in them either." Reaching out his arms to help Goldwyn down from the statue, the slaver looked disappointed when she rebuffed him and slid to the ground. She did not escape him for long, for he soon reclaimed her arm. Smirking, he led her away from the monument to the fallen hero.

Next stopping before the ruined columns of what had once been a great house, Esarhaddon's eyes skimmed over the fading graffiti which had been written there in times unknown. He laughed when he read, scrawled in rude speech:

> _The women of Gondor are all whores._

His laughter was even more robust when he read the rude letters on another column:

> _King Tarondor has more bastards than legitimate offspring._

"Sir, what does it say?" Frumgár asked politely.

"The first legend states that the women of Gondor are the most generous in the world when it comes to loving all mankind. The second states that King Tarondor, who moved the capitol from Osgiliath to Minas Tirith in 1640, sired a great number of children by women who were not his wife."

"Does it say anything about more battles?" Frumgár asked, disappointed.

"Not here, lad, but I can tell you what happened. Great warriors from across the River fought here in 2475, but they were defeated and ruthlessly slaughtered. The old bridge that once spanned the River was destroyed, but it was later rebuilt, and in its turn, that bridge passed into history. Stroll on with me, good lady and your sons."

He nudged Goldwyn's elbow and then strolled on around a set of great steps, which were flanked on either side by ruined statues. Guiding them around more rubble, he beckoned them to look down as he kicked aside a few broken chips of marble. Beneath their feet, they could see a great expanse covered with many colorful mosaics and tiles. Along a shattered wall were other mosaics, the blues and greens and subtle pastels still visible, though their now muted hue was covered with layers of dirt and debris. Winding their way around piles of rubble, he led them on through the ruined building. Judging by the many supporting columns that still stood, tilting precariously from age and destruction, the structure had once been an immense and beautiful palace.

Walking on, they passed beneath a broken archway. They entered a space that once must have been a garden, for here and there amidst the discolored marble, a few blighted acacias and oleanders still struggled to grow.

"Over there," Esarhaddon pointed to an indentation in the ground, "appears to be what was a large pool. See the elevated place in the center?" The others looked and saw what appeared to be the broken form of a woman of marble. Though the torso was missing, the long lines of the skirt were still marked by the impressions of graceful legs ending in a set of sandaled feet.

"When the city was young, this statue was probably a great marvel of the sculptor's art. The figure might have been of a beautiful maiden or goddess holding a pitcher, plumbed so that water would gush forth from the spout. The Gondorians lived well in their early days, but their culture has fallen as have their statues and cities." The slaver's upper lip curled contemptuously.

"There is still some water in the basin beneath the statue," Frumgár commented as he went over to look. There before him, he saw a small murky pool covered with some sort of greenish scum. "It does not smell very good!" he exclaimed, wrinkling his nose.

"The workmen who once tended this garden have faded beyond memory. Where once were great houses and gardens, columned processional ways, perhaps even statues of the Western Gods - and certainly of the kings of these people - there is nothing but decay. Here in their great halls and palaces, there must have been many feasts and dances held long ago. Perhaps at night, the ghosts of minstrels and bards still sing and tell tales before courts now dead and forgotten. This was once a great city of beauty, but it was destined to crumble into dust. That is about all there is to tell. It is a city of dead memory now." Esarhaddon stroked his beard thoughtfully.

The slaver led them on through more columned wreckage and great, silent halls and gardens until they drew near to the Great River. Down below them, along the tree-lined banks of the River, remains of old quays and docks, their foundations long abandoned, clung to the shore. Before them, spanning the Anduin, stood the jutting piers and remains of the bridge which had been destroyed in 3018, the year before. Clearly, the glory of Gondor had waned into its decline.

Goldwyn, her arm still held captive by that of the Southron, stood resentful and resigned beside him. "Oh, please, let this be over soon!" she prayed. The boys walked down the bank and gazed at the water, watching the fish that leapt out of the depths in pursuit of insects that hovered over the surface. Fritha exclaimed in excitement as a large silvery shape cut the placid surface and splashed down again, a captured dragonfly caught firmly in its mouth.

"When the rays of the sun slant down upon the waters, the River seems almost red, like blood, but still the scene is a peaceful one and quite lovely. Do you not agree, Northern lady?"

"I suppose," she nodded and then fell silent, refusing to become involved in a conversation with the man.

"Not too friendly, are you?" Esarhaddon smiled lazily at her and slid his arm about her waist.

"What are your plans for my sons?" Goldwyn demanded, turning to gaze into his dark eyes. If she angered this powerful man, what might he do to her sons? Would he demand her favors to ensure their safety?

"I had assumed that you would be more interested in my plans for you," he laughed. "Do you know how the declining rays of the sun turn your hair into burnished gold?"

Goldwyn did not appreciate the slaver's impudent hand as it came to rest on her buttocks. He was taking far too many liberties with her. She would slap his arrogant face, except she feared he might take out his rage on her sons. Turning her face  away from him, she stared at the Great River. "My beloved husband said the same about my hair, back in the days before the war."

"Then your husband was a discerning man, but he is not here to pay you the compliments that you deserve." Esarhaddon looked towards the River, pulling her so close to him that she could feel the warmth of his body through her garments. "Dine with me tonight, you and your sons. You know you cannot refuse me."

"I fear to say no," she gritted her teeth, hating the way that she was being compromised.

He pressed his face closer to hers, his beard touching her cheek, his breath smelling of mint. "You will be my guest."

"Your prisoner," she thought with loathing.


	17. A Glorious Folly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

After receiving the evening dole, the women clustered about in little circles and began to eat their supper. The freedom which the Southern slavers had granted them allowed for the reestablishment of the closeness that they had been denied for so long. No longer forced to stay in assigned troops, the women could walk freely among the other captives. However, a mood of unease had settled over the prisoners, tainting any slight solace they might have had. Their eyes searching the borders of the encampment, many kept vigil for Goldwyn and her sons, who had not yet returned. What ulterior motives had the slaver possessed when he asked Goldwyn and her boys to tour the ruins with him? What was taking them so long? Had the lecherous Southron raped her right in front of her sons? The image was morbid enough to be titillating, and sent many a tongue wagging in scandalized, outraged whispers.

As Leofgifu talked with an old acquaintance from her own village, she occasionally looked away, hoping to catch a glimpse of Goldwyn and her three sons returning to the camp safe and well. Being young girls, the twins found the subject of the older women's conversation very dull and tiresome. Their aunt's friend was one of those people who rambled on incessantly about their ailments. One could only take so much talk of bunions and ingrown toenails before the subject grew as old as stale, moldy bread. Excusing themselves, the girls wandered off in pursuit of a more interesting exchange.

The memory of the morning's dreadful tidings still vivid in her mind, Elffled turned to her sister and asked, "What did you think of the stories which Waerburh, Aeffe and Frithuswith told to the camp?"

"Oh, what happened to Waerburh was horrible!" Elfhild exclaimed softly, shuddering in outrage. As they walked, she stepped in close to her twin, so that they would not be overheard. "That poor woman did not deserve such torture! You know what Aunt Leofgifu said earlier today - only the mind of a Southron could devise such debauchery!" 

"Yet no evil befell the two others," Elffled noted thoughtfully as they strolled on. "Aeffe was certainly filled with naught but praise for the Southrons." She leaned her face nearer to her sister, her voice dropping. "Now, I do not doubt Waerburh's tale for an instant, but the accounts of the two other women were so different from hers."

"I think that Aeffe was enchanted by some dread spell or potion," Elfhild countered, magic being her explanation for everything which she could not explain. "Oh!" she exclaimed, halting in her tracks and turning to face her twin. An idea had suddenly come to her. "Mayhap we should talk with these women and ask them more about what happened?"

A pensive expression clouded Elffled's face. "Are you sure that is our place?" She hesitated to ask mere acquaintances such intimate questions.

"If they take offense, we will not press the matter." Elfhild glanced towards the direction which they had come. "I do not think that we should bother Waerburh, though... our questions would only remind her of her pain."

"Oh, no, that would be unkind indeed," Elffled nodded in sincere agreement. "I would not wish to cause the poor woman any more suffering." She paused, thinking for a moment. "What about Frithuswith then? Or Aeffe?"

Elfhild's gaze fell to her feet, which she shuffled in the dirt. "I am not sure I want to bother Frithuswith... She is a lady from a wealthy family, and we are farm girls. She might laugh at us." Abruptly raising her head, she flipped her long blonde mane over her shoulder, as though the gesture could somehow dismiss the lack of confidence she felt about her low social standing. "Let us speak with Aeffe instead... she looks to be only a few years older than we are, and she did seem pleasant."

And so it was settled: the twins would seek out Aeffe and inquire of her what had really transpired in the slaver's tent. It was a way to pass the time, a way to distract themselves from the crushing despair of the camp and the stifling presence of the older women. A light diversion would prove refreshing to their overburdened minds. Both girls' thoughts were occupied with the escape which had been planned for that evening. In just a few hours, Goldwyn and a great number of the captives would make a mad dash for freedom. How many would manage to elude their captors? Only time would tell.

Fired up with the contagious enthusiasm which swept over the camp after Goldwyn's speech, Elfhild longed to be a part of the escape attempt. The cause was so hopeless and doomed to failure that it appealed to the young girl's romantic, idealistic nature. Visions of a courageous last stand against their enemies filled her childish imagination. Unfortunately, her more sensible aunt balked at such a foolhardy scheme. Would Leofgifu reconsider her decision not to challenge the rule of the slavers? Elfhild needed to talk with her aunt, but she dreaded the encounter with all her heart, for she feared she already knew the outcome of the debate. Leofgifu would refuse; she already had when Goldwyn first announced her drastic plan to flee. Yet Elfhild had made up her mind - _she planned to escape, with or without her aunt!_

It was a painful decision, yes, but a life of slavery terrified her, and she longed to do something to help her beleaguered country. Her sister seemed reluctant, but Elfhild knew she could talk her into making the attempt. After all, Elffled would follow her wherever she went, even to the ends of the earth. Oh, what would happen to them alone in the wilds of Gondor, if they did manage to elude their captors? She prayed with all her heart that Leofgifu would relent! They would need the guidance and wisdom of their sensible aunt on this journey back to their homeland!

Milling through the camp, pausing now and then to chat when they saw a familiar face, the twins at last spotted Aeffe. Perched upon a large, gray boulder, the older girl was all alone as she watched the crowd. When the twins had first seen her, the early morning gloom had obscured Aeffe's features, but now, in the light of the westering sun, the sisters could see her clearly. She was taller than they, which was not all that unusual, since the twins were somewhat petite. Her round face really was moon-shaped, just as the slaver had said, and a dark mole graced the right side of her mouth. Her most unique feature, however, was her hair; her wavy tresses were the color of buttercream tinted with strawberries, a shade which was considered desirable among the Rohirrim and often acquired by the use of dyes.

"Good evening," Elfhild greeted as she approached the older girl. "I am Elfhild, and this is my sister, Elffled." She gestured to the other girl, who waved and smiled shyly in salutation. "Do you mind if we sit here?" 

"Oh, no, not at all," Aeffe smiled gregariously. "I was feeling a bit lonely sitting here all by myself." She studied each girl for a long moment, her eyes shifting from first one to the other, her bemused expression clearly showing her confusion. "How am I ever to tell you two apart?" she exclaimed helplessly. "You both look exactly alike!"

Laughing, Elfhild and Elffled sat down on the rock beside Aeffe. "Aye, we are often mistaken for each other," Elfhild told her, preparing to give the other girl the usual speech which she gave new acquaintances who found it confusing to tell the two sisters apart. "However, if one has known us for a while, it is easy to see the differences." 

"I am the pretty one and she is the loud one who talks all the time," Elffled put in quickly. When Elfhild shot her a nasty glare, she returned the hostile gesture with a winning smile which dripped of false sweetness.

Amused, Aeffe giggled at the playful banter between the identical sisters, though she tried to stifle her laughter behind her fingers. Suddenly it occurred to her that she had been remiss in introductions. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you!" she exclaimed, pressing her palm to her heart. "I am Aeffe of Dáburna."

"Oh!" Elfhild's eyes lit up in recognition. "That is close to Grenefeld, our village!"

"We are neighbors," Elffled laughed. 

"Well... not exactly, but close enough," Aeffe remarked, chuckling.

"Say, I heard about what happened in the slaver's tent last night," Elfhild spoke up, broaching the subject which she was dying to talk about. "Were you not afraid?"

A thoughtful expression came over Aeffe's face as she considered the question. "At first I was, but after I drew upon the dragon's tail, I began to relax and appreciate the courtesy of the charming Southrons... and, of course, Inbir." A rosy blush tinting the apples of her cheeks, she looked down and sighed softly, a wistful smile upon her lips.

"How could you have any good words to say about the Southrons?" Elfhild gasped in astonishment. "And especially after what the slaver did to Waerburh!"

"Waerburh?" Aeffe repeated questioningly, her brows furrowing as she tried to sort through the hazy memories of the previous night. Bewitched by the fragrant, seductive smoke, she had been deaf to Waerburh's screams, hearing only the sound of Inbir's melodic voice. "As far as I know, he did naught to her." Flushing slightly, she turned her head away.

"Oh, I forgot, you were not there to hear Waerburh's tale," Elfhild replied somewhat sheepishly. Quickly recovering her dignity, she launched into a rant against the slaver. "That wicked, shameless lecher! What he did to her was abominable!"

"I - I cannot remember all of the evening... I did not know... Perhaps it was." Aeffe shifted uncomfortably upon her rock. 

"Why can you not remember?" Elffled asked softly, sensing the other girl's unease. Riveting her gaze upon her twin, she narrowed her eyes, sending Elfhild a mental command to use some caution before she opened her yapping mouth again. Elffled feared that her sister would inadvertently hurt Aeffe's feelings with her endless questions and open disdain for the Haradrim.

"The dragon put a spell of sleepiness upon me, and I fell into a deep repose until Inbir," Aeffe's voice softened with sentiment as she said his name, "woke me from my slumbers. I can scarcely recall even walking back to the camp."

"Aeffe, are you sure that... thing... was really a dragon?" Elffled inquired with gentle skepticism. Though a wild tale appealed to her imagination, still there was something about the other girl's account which caused her to doubt its veracity. "Waerburh said it was some sort of device made of glass, out of which smoked besotting clouds of some enchanted vapor."

"Mayhap it was," Aeffe snapped. "I do not know! Perhaps I drank too much wine." Shrugging, she plucked a loose thread from her tattered dress and let it drop to the ground. "Did you come here to ridicule me?" she demanded, her temper flaring. "If such was your intention, you know I do not have to stay here and allow you to belittle me!" She lifted her head and glared defiantly at the sisters.

"No, no!" Elffled cried, rapidly shaking her hand back and forth in front of her in protest. Oh, she knew this was a bad idea from the beginning! They had no right to poke around in a stranger's affairs!

Aeffe shrugged one shoulder. "How was I to know what the thing was? There is nothing like it in the Mark and there are no accounts of it in any song or tale I ever heard."

"Probably just as well there are not," Elffled commented dryly. "One whiff of anything that potent would be like drinking a whole keg of mead, and would set many a strong rider back on his haunches!"

Aeffe's blue eyes glittered with anger as she glared imperiously down her nose at the twins. "A whole keg! No, not quite that strong." Her pretty lips pursed, she thought for a moment and then giggled. "How foolish to be arguing over anything so silly! To tell you the truth, it was more like drinking a whole tankard, and drinking it far too quickly!" With a sigh, she smiled kindly at the twins. "Since you asked about last night, I will tell you. It was wonderful, like nothing I have ever known in my entire lifetime! Of course, the two of you would never understand, for you are only children. How could you possibly comprehend the delicious feeling of experiencing forgetfulness for a while?" She shook her head, as though mystified by her own question. "I am only thankful that the opportunity came to me, for I was able to forget for a few hours the dreadful sight which we beheld a few days ago."

"Please tell us about what happened," Elfhild interjected quickly, attempting to steer the conversation away from a topic so morbid and morose as the bone field of Pelennor. Almost all of them had lost kin there, and constant reminders brought little solace.

Hugging her knees to her chest, Aeffe smiled enigmatically, a faraway look in her eyes. "You will not mock me, will you?"

"Oh, no, never," Elfhild exclaimed, hoping to reassure her.

"Of course not," Elffled added politely, trying to camouflage her eagerness. She was dying to hear some scandalous tale which would be shocking enough to distract her from the tedium of the long journey.

Taking a deep breath, Aeffe began. "When the slaver pointed that riding crop of his at me and summoned me to his tent, I could have died right there. My knees were actually shaking! I was certain that he would do horrible things to us all." Her eyes glowed with remembered excitement. "He and his men frightened me so! You know their skins are so dark... some of them are black, while others are light tan, as though they had been in the sun too long." Sighing, she rested her head on her knees, her expression dreamy. "And those eyes! Those beautiful eyes! And their scent! They always smell of perfume and mint... So strange they are... and exotic... Oh, how can I explain anything to you?" With a little giggle, she stretched her legs out and scooted back on the rock.

Clearing her throat, Elfhild asked hesitantly, "Did they harm you?"

"Oh, no! No, they were almost," Aeffe tapped a finger to her lips, searching her mind for a word, "formal, polite, courteous... dignified, I suppose you would call them. Reserved at first, but do not let that outward manner deceive you." She smiled mysteriously, as though remembering something quite pleasant.

"But the dragon," Elfhild interjected, eager to know more about the fantastical elements of Aeffe's story. "What about the dragon?"

"As I said, the smoke calmed my fears, and everything seemed so peaceful. My body felt as though it were floating luxuriously, yet when I tried to move, I found that my limbs were wrapped in a cocoon of heavy thread. It seemed as though the only thing that tied me to the earth was a thin strand of cobweb. Inbir held me in his arms so that I could not drift away." Giggling, Aeffe hugged herself, recalling the effervescent sensations she had experienced from the salubrious vapors. "My head was spinning like a top, but it was not a bad sort of spinning. As a matter of fact, I felt quite giddy!"

"That happened to us once when we drank too much mead during the Midsummer fair," Elffled chuckled dryly. "We retched a lot afterwards, though."

Elfhild giggled, recalling the incident. "Yes, and Mother broke off a willow limb and switched us all the way back to the wagon. She made us sit there until Father and Eadfrid - our brother - finally returned from the stall of a traveling metalsmith."

"Our brother laughed at us, but Father only silently fumed," Elffled elaborated. "When we returned home, he gave us a very solemn speech warning of the perils of imbibing too much. Mother was almost certain that we would become drunkards and end our days as derelicts!" The sisters' eyes met, and then their smiles faded as a shadow of shared pain passed between them. Now their closest family members were gone, and never again would they hear their father's booming laugh, or see their mother's blue eyes twinkling as she smiled, or their brother's ready grin as he thought up some new devilment.

"Please do not be sad!" Aeffe exclaimed, seeing the expressions of sorrow cross over the twins' faces. "I cannot bear any more sadness! I will pine away and die if there is any more!" Her voice caught in her throat. "Oh, please let us try to find some happiness while we can have it! It will be all right, I know it will be." She reached out for Elffled's hand, and Elffled leaned over and hugged the other girl. On the verge of tears, Aeffe's blue eyes misted over. 

Elfhild patted her on the shoulder. "Yes, it will be all right," she soothed, suddenly feeling quite grown-up, almost motherly towards this girl who was older than both of them.

"Oh, I know it will be!" Aeffe's mouth twitched, sending the mole into a tremulous, fluttering dance. "Then you do understand, do you not? I know the rest of the women think I am foolish, deceived, or something. Oh, maybe I am, but I do not care anymore!" The words rushed from her mouth, as though she were so full of her thoughts that she would burst if she did not tell someone. "After so much sorrow and loneliness, I felt gloriously wonderful in Inbir's arms, happy, calm and at peace!" Her eyes flashed defiantly at the twins. "Laugh at me if you wish, say I am bewitched, that I am under a spell! What difference does it make? I was happy for the first time in months! Do you not understand?" She gripped Elfhild's hand in a tight hold.

"Oh, Aeffe, we are not making light of what you say," Elfhild murmured encouragingly. "Maybe we would like to be happy for a change, too!" Though she preferred her happiness to be natural, perhaps poor, deluded Aeffe was better off than they were. At least she had found some solace in the smoke of the dragon.

Aeffe's slender body relaxed as her lips curved into a smile. "Then do not be afraid of the Southrons, at least not of Inbir! I am unsure about the rest yet, but Inbir would never harm you. I - I believe he is attracted to me, and I know that I am certainly becoming fond of him," she murmured shyly, looking down at her lap. Suddenly she clasped the hands of both sisters in her own. "Please let us be friends! I do not have many here. There are none in my troop from my village and I have been so lonely, so very lonely."

"Of course, we will be your friends!" Elfhild exclaimed, squeezing Aeffe's hand.

"There is no one in our troop who is our age, only older women and children," Elffled admitted with regret. "They get boring after a while." She wrinkled her nose.

A look of sadness crossed over Elfhild's face. "My best friend is not among the captives, for she escaped when the orcs raided our village." For a moment, she thought wistfully of Swithwyn the miller's daughter, her old friend since childhood, and then she remembered Goldwyn's plan for the night. Should she ask Aeffe to go with them? And then, before she could ponder the answer, the words leapt from her mouth. "Escape, Aeffe! Think of it! I know you are fond of Inbir, but not all Southrons are like him! Many are evil and cruel, such as the head slaver, a debauched profligate who has no qualms against rape! In case you had not heard already, some of the women are planning to escape this night. My sister and I will be joining them." As Elffled was about to gasp out in protest, Elfhild elbowed her in the ribs to silence her. "Aeffe, will you not come with us?"

Aeffe's eyes darted from the face of one sister to the other. "Escape!" she exclaimed incredulously. "That is such a foolish notion! You can never get away from them, you know! They will just chase you down and bring you back. We are no longer little children who think we can pack a few possessions and run away and everything will be right!" Sighing, she looked away, her voice becoming soft and sad with the wisdom of experience. "I always had that idea when I was younger, to run away and leave everything behind. I attempted just that once, years ago, but I had the sense to go back to my home, and never, ever ran away after that. We are better off staying with the Southrons!" Aeffe exclaimed emphatically.

"I think that we can successfully elude the slavers and survive in the wilds." Elfhild looked the other girl in the eyes, her expression unwavering. She had made up her mind, and no one could dissuade her!

"Why did you run away?" Elffled asked, more intrigued by Aeffe's statement than she was with the endless debate about Goldwyn's foolish quest.

"After my father and mother fell sick to the fever and died, I had no one. Neighbor women cared for me until my grandfather and his manservant came to fetch me," Aeffe told them, her eyes gazing into the distance, as though seeing a vision of her unhappy past. "Few had been the times that I had seen him before. He had always frightened me, for he was a gruff old man with a rheumy eye, a puckered mouth and many teeth missing. He said very little, and when he did, each word seemed to me a criticism." She paused before gathering her thoughts and continuing.

"After a month in the old man's house, I could bear it no longer. One day when my grandfather went to talk to one of his tenants, I ran away, vowing to myself that I would walk back to my family's home. When he returned, his housekeeper informed him of my absence, and he set off on his old gray dapple." Aeffe's lower lip trembled as she recalled the events of that day long ago. "I was terrified when he found me, but I was a saucy little thing, and asked him why he even bothered looking for me. He said nothing, just lifted me up on the saddle and took his place behind me. We rode back in silence. I was certain he would beat me, but he never once raised his hand." She tilted her head downward, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind one ear. "I do not think he liked children very well. However, after he had brought me back, I think he tried to be a little kinder and gentler towards me. I stayed because of his change of manner, but I never really loved him. Perhaps I should have." Teardrops began to gather in her eyes, but she blinked them away.

"This spring, when the orcs raided his small farm, he took his old sword down from its place on the wall. I remember how he always kept it clean and polished until its steel gleamed with a bright lustre. He went out to fight the raiders, but it was no use. They fell upon him, stabbing him over and over. They were not content even after he was dead, for they mutilated his body horribly." Aeffe buried her head in her hands and softly sobbed.

"Oh, Aeffe, I am so sorry!" Elfhild exclaimed, giving the other girl a sympathetic hug. "Our mother tried to fight the orcs, too, and they murdered her just as they did your grandfather."

"Your grandfather must have been very brave," Elffled whispered, squeezing Aeffe's hand. She and Elfhild had much in common with this poor, melancholy girl. All three of them were orphans, having lost those dear to them either to the ravages of war or to the cruel hands of fate. 

"Aye, he was very brave!" Aeffe's long lashes batted away tears as she looked up at the twins. "Please, let us not talk of this no longer! If I must hear aught more of sadness and despair, I will splinter into thousands of pieces!" She inhaled deeply, trying to compose herself before she spoke again. "Tell me where you will go if you run away. With whom will you abide?" Her tear-reddened eyes glanced curiously at each girl.

"To the mountains, I guess... maybe Dunharrow, if it has not been taken or besieged by the enemy. Who knows?" Elfhild shrugged. "Perhaps I shall meet Swithwyn there." An awkward grin pasted on her face, she shifted slightly, trying not to show her discomfort. Aeffe's question had taken her by surprise, for she had not really considered where they would go if they actually managed to escape. Holding her head high, she put on a false air of confidence, for she hoped to impress the older girl with her brilliant skills of planning.

"Well, 'tis a glorious folly, but one which I will not chance!" Aeffe shook her head, emphasizing her point. "I implore you to change your minds and do not attempt this adventure, for that is all it is, an adventure! I am older than you and I encourage you to be sensible. All you are doing is running back into the hands of the enemy army! Do you want to face them again, those repulsive brutes and the cruel, dark-eyed soldiers? Or... mayhap even those... bat things... which sometimes prowl the night skies." Aeffe cast a nervous glance to the heavens, wondering if the very mention of the Fell Riders would summon them forth to darken the lands with the shadow of death. 

"Oh, I hope not!" Elffled shivered fearfully, rubbing her hands over her forearms as though she were cold in spite of the heat of the balmy summer evening. She had serious misgivings about the planned escape attempt; in fact, she did not want to escape at all! She did not want to think of the enemy companies which patrolled the road to Rohan, or about the fell creatures that soared through the heavens in the dark and lonely night. Whenever they passed above her, she would shake and chill as though she were burning with fever... and weep as though she were dying of heartbreak. She did not know which was worse... the fear that emanated from the Fell Riders, or the sadness. 

"I cannot bear to stay here and become a slave," Elfhild cried desperately, her hands clenching into fists. "On this side of the river, there is hope for freedom, but once we cross the Anduin, there will be nothing." She gazed to the east, where the Mountains of Shadow loomed in the distance. "This is our only chance to escape! Please, Aeffe, will you not reconsider?" Her face filled with sincerity, Elfhild looked deeply into Aeffe's eyes.

"No, it is too dangerous!" Aeffe shook her head, her voice filled with agony. "Please, I beg you, do not attempt this foolish quest! I have an awful feeling about this!" She wrung her hands in despair. 

"My mind is set, and I will not change it," Elfhild stated resolutely, her jaw set with stubborn determination. "Perhaps I will die in the wilderness, but at least it will not be in slavery. If you should have a change of heart, you are welcome to come with us." Rising to her feet, Elfhild stretched and straightened out the wrinkles in her skirt. "My sister and I need to return to our aunt. Like you, she feels the wisest course is to stay with the Southrons." The corner of her lips twitching into a wry smile, Elfhild uttered a humorless chuckle. "I pray that we can persuade her to accompany us on our journey... and that you will change your mind."

Aeffe stood up and brushed the dirt off her tattered garment. "No, I will remain here and leave wild escape attempts and desperate last stands to those more courageous than me." She looked sadly at the reckless, brave Elfhild, and her reluctant, frightened sister. "Someone has to be here to welcome you back when the Southrons recapture you."


	18. To Rouse the Appetite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

The shadows were deepening when Esarhaddon led Goldwyn back to the bustling slave camp. Behind the pair walked Goldwyn's three sons - Fródwine, with face grimly set ahead; Frumgár, his eyes wide with curiosity at the unfamiliar sights, sounds and aromas of the section of the camp reserved for the slavers; and Fritha, hesitant, wishing in his consternation that he could feel the comfort of his mother's hand. Mashing his upper lip hard against his lower, the youngest boy tried to stifle his tears. Fródwine glared at his youngest brother, while Frumgár twisted his face in a silly look, hoping that he could make Fritha smile.

"Soon this ordeal will be ended, and the slaver will allow us to return to our own people," Goldwyn tried to reassure herself. "Surely no man, not even a Southern slaver, is so base that he would ravish a woman in the presence of her own sons!" Only half believing her own words, she fretted, a sinking feeling twisting her stomach, "Perhaps he will dismiss the boys and order them to go back to my kinswomen while he has his way with me!" Obeying a sudden foolish urge, she looked about her for someone to rescue her and her sons, but her eyes met only tawny or dark-skinned faces which all seemed to be contorted in laughter or jeers. An uncontrollable shiver of fear raced down her spine, and she commanded herself not to flee.

"Madame, you look strained," the smooth, somewhat amused voice of the slaver interrupted her thoughts.

"Sir, please let us return to the others." She hoped that she did not sound whining, but she knew that the tightness in her throat constricted her voice. "Long have we been without a bath, and our smell must be offensive to you."

He squeezed her arm. "Madame, unfortunately, the unwashed condition of you and your sons is manifestly apparent to the nostrils of all who venture near you. I had considered your distress before I ever issued my invitation."

"An invitation, sir? I had believed it to be a command." She met his gaze unflinchingly, but his eyes only smiled devilishly back into hers.

"An invitation, an offer, a suggestion, a proposal, an expectation, a request, a command - call it what you wish - but you will dine with me tonight. You worry needlessly about your unwashed condition, for I had foreseen your need to bathe. Arrangements have already been made, so you need have no concerns on this account."

"Sir, I cannot do that! I will not do that!" she cried angrily. "In any event, we are not supposed to bathe until tomorrow morning! What I mean--" 

"A trifling detail," the slaver chuckled, interrupting her. "To simplify everything for you, you and your sons will be clean before you are allowed to dine in my presence."

His fair skin flushed with anger, Fródwine stepped between the Southron and his mother. "Slaver, perhaps you do not understand. My mother is telling you that we do not choose to accept your hospitality!" His fist clenched, he flung his head back defiantly. "Now leave her alone! I warn you!" How much more was there to be borne of the dregs of slavery? First defeat, then captivity. Now was his mother to be degraded by this greasy pig of a man?

"Chose?" Esarhaddon raised an eyebrow. "Slaves have no choice in these matters! Move aside, boy!" he demanded, condescending amusement in his voice.

His eyes full of hatred, Fródwine surveyed the Southron's imposing figure, and he paused, intimidated both by the man's powerful, muscular body and the wicked scimitar which hung from his belt. For a moment, Fródwine felt quailing fear, but the arrogant smirk upon the slaver's face fanned the boy's anger into full-blown rage. Through a curtain of blazing red, Fródwine saw the slaver's features melt away. With an angry yell, the boy gave in to the blood fury and surged forward, swinging at the slaver's face with his fists. The Southron was far more agile than he appeared, however, and, dodging the blows, he quickly captured the boy's wrists. Pinning them tightly, he pulled the boy forward and laughed in his face.

Frumgár stared at the scene in alarm. Then, taking a deep breath, he dived towards the backs of the Southron's legs, grunting as he tried to wrestle him to the ground. The boy barely budged the man's solid bulk, receiving a vicious kick in the chest for his efforts. The breath knocked out of him, the frightened boy lay cowering on the ground. Goldwyn's frightened, high-pitched scream broke the flood gates of Fritha's tears, and, wailing, he clung to her skirt.

"Lads, do not be fools!" Esarhaddon warned. "Never forget that I hold your lives and the life of your mother in my hands!"

The Southron's grip was far too strong for Fródwine. Thwarted for the time, the boy did not struggle, but glared at his opponent, his eyes narrowing into tight slits.

Turning his attention away from his young assailant, Esarhaddon grinned at the crowd of guards and slaves who had gathered at the first cries of alarm. Alert, their bodies tense and ready, they waited only for their master's command.

"Men, stay back!" the slaver ordered. "The boy will settle down when he realizes the futility of his situation!"

"Fródwine and Frumgár! Stop this!" Goldwyn screamed, desperation rising in her voice. Her whole body was trembling.

"Stay out of this, Mother!" Fródwine turned his head and spat angrily to the side. "Keep Fritha away or he will get himself hurt!"

"A proud little peacock!" the slave master jeered, winking at his men, who laughed at the boy's struggles. "Now, boy, if you promise to behave yourself, I will let you go free. Maybe I will forget that any of this ever happened." 

Enraged at the taunt, Fródwine twisted his right hand free from the distracted Southron's grasp. The youth's fist slashed forward, catching the edge of the slaver's jaw, driving the man's face to the right.

"You impudent little bastard!" Esarhaddon spat out as he brought up his left forearm, knocking the boy's arm away. Ignoring the sharp pain that shot through his arm, Fródwine struggled to escape, but he was no match for the slaver. The powerful man forced both of the boy's wrists together, holding them in a vise-like grip. Glaring, Fródwine trembled in angry frustration.

"Seize the other boy before he does something foolish!" came the harsh command of the slaver.

Before the guards could move, though, Frumgár had struggled to his feet. Lunging forward, he sprang on the slaver's back, grabbing his shoulders and wrapping his legs around the Southron's middle. Temporarily knocked off balance, the slaver stumbled forward but managed to retain his grip upon Fródwine. A guard sprang forward and roughly hauled Frumgár back. Grinning, the olive-skinned Southron held the struggling, crimson-faced Frumgár, dodging his feet as the boy kicked at his legs.

"Madame," Esarhaddon laughed as he held Fródwine at arm's length, "you have three fine sons. With their flowing blond locks, their pretty faces and well-shaped bodies, these two older demons of yours would bring high prices upon the auction block right now. In only a few years, the youngest will be ready, although there are many who prefer them that young. There is a market for handsome, well-developed lads, either as prospective fighters in the pits or as dancing boys in the taverns operated by men who fancy youths! I know several nobles and merchants whose appetites run to pederasty. They would buy the lot of them." The slaver smiled as he saw shock and disgust spread over Goldwyn's fair features. "If you do not exercise control over your sons, I will make sure they are sold to speculators who deal in such boys!"

Trembling, Goldwyn sucked in a shaky breath, her face pale. "Sir, you must not sell my sons for such purposes! The thought is too abhorrent for civilized folk! I apologize for their behavior! They were overzealous in their attempts to protect me and acted out of order! I beg you to give them another chance! I will vouchsafe their behavior!"

She could not bear the idea of her sons fighting against evil men or who knows what strange, loathsome monster spawned in the rank pits of the Dark Tower! Reaching her hand down, she protectively pushed Fritha behind her. Dancing boys in a house of debauchery - even the thought filled her with disgust. What would their father say if he knew that his sons had met such degrading fates? And pederasty? Her face flamed at the very thought of the word's meaning. She had never heard of such disgusting practices in her peaceful village, but she knew that such vile, reprehensible perversions existed among men of great vice and little conscience.

"Madame, have no fear on that score." The slaver's words sounded sincere, but Goldwyn was not certain whether she believed him. "While some men enjoy using boys as they would women, I am not among them, and neither are any of my men." He looked at her sternly. "Still, your sons must learn control and self-discipline. I do not want to feel a knife between my ribs some night when I am sleeping upon my couch." The slaver still held the scowling boy at bay, but the fight had gone out of the lad.

"Sir, they will give you no more trouble! Just please release us to go back with the others!" Goldwyn would fall upon her knees, degrade herself, beg him if necessary, give him whatever he wanted, if only he would spare them such a cruel fate!

"Nay, Madame, I will not release you just yet, for I am growing too fond of your company. And lest they try to sink their spurs into me again, your little cockerels will be given a period of time in which they may cool their tempers." Releasing his wrists, Esarhaddon pushed an infuriated Fródwine back into the waiting clutch of a guard, who pinned the boy's arms at his sides. "Men, cage these little roosters in one of the wains reserved for troublemakers and then set a guard over them! When they have calmed themselves sufficiently and given their word that they will not become violent again, I will permit them to enter my presence!"

"Aye, Shakh, they will learn to be good lads," the guard laughed as he and two others marched the glaring older boys away.

"Sons, please do as he says!" Goldwyn called out as she watched them shuffle off.

"So much dissension over a simple bath," the slaver shook his head and looked at her questioningly. "Do all your people have such aversions to cleanliness?"

Goldwyn stared at him unflinchingly. "Sir, this has nothing to do with cleanliness. My sons sought to protect my honor, as any man of the Mark would surely do."

"Madame, you do not know what I plan for you, but I have no desire to continue discussing this matter in the middle of my camp with my men staring at us! You will go with me into my pavilion now." He claimed her arm once again, and guiding her and Fritha between the two large black eunuchs who guarded the entrance, he led them into the interior of the tent. Pausing at the threshold, the slaver halted and turned to face Goldwyn. "Madame, you must stop here! Before entering my tent, you and your son must first remove your shoes and place them near the entrance of my abode. In the South and East, it is considered a sign of disrespect to enter a tent or building wearing shoes. Yours at least will be replaced by soft slippers, but unfortunately your son must remain barefooted." The slaver smiled with amusement as he beheld her consternation.

"Sir, is it necessary to remove our shoes? They are not that grimy with trail dust," Goldwyn politely explained, with only a trace of defiance.

"The removal of shoes when indoors is the custom of the South and East. You will abide by this protocol," the slaver explained in a patient voice. "Now you and your son are to seat yourselves over by the low table while I give my servants a few last minute directions." He waited until she had nodded, and then with a slight squeeze to her elbow, he released her arm.

Glancing about the tent uncertainly, Goldwyn and Fritha walked to the low table to which he had gestured. Spread over the ground was a cream colored carpet adorned with golden vines which twirled and twined across the heavy fabric. Cushions and pillows of a variety of colors, textures and fabrics were scattered about the table.

"Mother, this place looks strange," Fritha whispered as he wiped the last tears from his eyes and then hiccuped loudly. "Why do they not use benches and chairs? Why do they sit on pillows?" he asked, suddenly interested in the tent and its furnishings. "Do they sleep on the floor?"

"Son, you know that Aeffe had to eat with the Southron last night." Goldwyn looked down at the boy, who nodded. "She says that these people are too slovenly to sit upon chairs or benches and sprawl about the floor when they sup. Do not mention this strangeness to this man, lest you make him angry," Goldwyn whispered as she sat down gracefully, drawing her legs under her skirt. 

Still gazing all around, Fritha sniffed and sat down cross-legged beside his mother. His attention was now drawn to the sight of the large black man bowing before Esarhaddon.

Esarhaddon's eyes flicked down to the eunuch who knelt before him. A few words in Haradric were exchanged between them, and then the eunuch rose, diffidently bowing his head and folding his hands over his large middle. Goldwyn and Fritha could not understand what the two were saying, but from the way the slaver kept looking at her, she was sure that he must be talking about her. She felt even more uneasy.

"Carnation, my men will not be dining with me tonight; instead, this woman and her three sons shall be my guests." Esarhaddon gestured towards Goldwyn and Fritha. "As you already know, the meal does not have to be elaborate, but make certain that something is prepared that would tantalize the palate of the young boys. See that a bath is drawn for this woman and her three sons. The boys are to have fresh clothing from the supply master's store." The eunuch murmured his understanding. "Now go to the tent of my slave Kishi," the slaver continued. "She and this woman should be approximately the same size, at least in the breasts and the hips, although Kishi is not quite so tall. Inform her that she is to send garments that would display the Northern woman's beauty to the best advantage. Now do as I have ordered."

Esarhaddon grinned when he thought how the Northern wench's lavish, full breasts would be displayed to the best advantage in the deep cleavage of a long overdress. Translucent baggy pantaloons would skim over her hips, the thin material revealing the shadow of her sacred pyramid of love, the rounded contour of her curvaceous hips, her silken thighs and trim calves and ankles. The mere thought of her gowned so seductively sent a warm feeling through the slaver's groin.

"To hear is to obey with diligence and alacrity, Master!" Inclining his head, Carnation touched his hand to his chest and then to his forehead. Bowing his way backward to the door, he turned at the entrance and strode away with great dignity.

Esarhaddon walked over to the table where Goldwyn and Fritha were sitting and looked down to them. "Madame, when you and your son bathe, remember that the water in which you cleanse yourself was meant for me. When you spread the creamy soap over your lovely skin, think of how soothing it would feel if those were my hands which were caressing you. Though I would be most delighted to join you in the tub, I will honor your request for privacy... at least for now." His dark eyes flashed a sensuous promise to her as he inclined his head slightly and then strode from the tent.

Blushing and shivering in revulsion, Goldwyn sagged against a brocaded cushion behind her. Soon, she and her son heard a commotion at the entryway as servants appeared, carrying a large tub and pails of water into the tent. More slaves filed in behind them, bringing soap, cloths and towels and placing them upon a low table at the side. Others carried clothing and carefully put the folded garments upon the slaver's divan. Their task finished, the servants bowed and left silently, closing the tent flap behind them.

"Mother, now that the evil people have gone, are we going to rescue Fródwine and Frumgár and then all of us will escape?" Fritha asked, his voice a whisper.

"No, my son. There are too many guards and we would be quickly caught. Later tonight we will make good our escape. Be quick, Fritha. Undress and get in the tub before that terrible man comes back!"

Both mother and son had already bathed and dressed when they heard the voice of Fródwine at the closed tent flap. "Mother, may we come in?" The boy looked up and down the long rows of tents, expecting at any moment to see the slaver, scimitar in hand, charging down the pathway.

"Aye, come in, son. We have finished our baths." Scowling at the servants outside the tent, the two boys waited as the guards drew the curtains open for them. 

"Mother!" came the combined exclamations of the two boys as they stopped just inside the entryway of the tent and gaped in disbelief at Goldwyn.

"Those clothes! Never have we seen the like of them!" Fródwine exclaimed as he beheld his mother. Goldwyn's bosom almost popped out of the plunging neck of a long red frock which barely concealed her rosebud nubs above the swell of her breasts. Beneath the dress was a chemise of diaphanous material, the delicate ruffles of which peeped out from beneath the edges of the neckline, but the undergarment revealed more than it hid. Embarrassed, Goldwyn put her hand to her chest as she observed the startled expressions on her sons' faces. Several buttons held the gown taut at the middle until the material hung open beneath her waist, revealing a pair of light blue pantaloons and the calf-length hem of the filmy chemise. A little red and gold beaded hat sat atop her head, and yellow pointed slippers were upon her feet.

Red-faced and ashamed, Fródwine turned his head away.

"Our people would never wear such outlandish garb!" Goldwyn replied apologetically as she lowered her eyes in embarrassment.

"Mother, did they steal your other clothing?" Frumgár asked uncertainly.

"No," Goldwyn snapped. "I have dressed in this shameful gown because these savages would give me nothing else to wear! Now stop talking about it and take your baths quickly. I know the water is filthy, but I doubt they would give us more, and I do not want to ask. The slaver has provided fresh clothing for all of you, and though they are naught but the tunics of slaves, they are fresh and clean."

"Mother, these animals have humiliated our family!" Fródwine grumbled resentfully.

Goldwyn lifted her turquoise eyes and stared resolutely ahead. "My sons, I ask your patience in bearing this base insult! If our plans go according to expectations, we shall be free of these people after tonight!"

"Mother, I vow that I shall make them pay for it!" Fródwine swore angrily.

"Aye, son, someday, but not tonight. Now take your baths ere the Southron gets back!" Folding her hands in her lap, Goldwyn waited, hoping that this atrocious evening would be over soon.

When the slaver returned sometime later, he found Goldwyn nervously pacing about the tent. Frumgár had captured Fritha's giggling attention by surrounded him with a play fortress of pillows. Fródwine rose to his feet and hurled a stormy glance of warning at the slaver, which the slaver met with a smile.

"My guests, I am delighted that you are with me! Now please be seated." A broad grin lit the slaver's face. "The supper will soon be served. My Lady Goldwyn, you look charming in that most alluring dress. You will take your seat beside me, and your sons will sit on the other side of the table opposite us. Now enjoy yourselves!"


	19. A Tempting Dish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Sitting down cross-legged as gracefully as she could, Goldwyn was certain that the slaver was laughing at her awkwardness. She was terribly conscious of the scarcity of material that barely covered her breasts. The wide, deep cleavage plunged almost to her waist, and the tightness of the bodice hurled her breasts upward, spreading them into broad, prominent globes. Esarhaddon sat down beside her on the carpet, and she could feel his heated gaze burning into her exposed flesh. Across the table from them, Fródwine scowled gloomily at the slaver while Frumgár looked with curiosity at the man. Fritha, his gaze cast down, was miserable as his eyes threatened to mist over again with tears. Goldwyn averted her gaze from the slaver's and concentrated her attentions upon her sons across the table.

Servants with trays of food soon made their entry into the tent, placing platters of round, flat bead; cheeses; strange jars of oval-shaped green fruits pickled in brine; and other preserved vegetables upon the table. As the slaves quietly went about their tasks of serving the main dish of stewed beef, rice and lentils flavored with pungent, aromatic spices, the slaver commented dryly, "The beef was provided by the Gondorians, and there are but a few of the cattle left to be slaughtered. Enjoy the meat while you are fortunate enough to have it."

Breaking off portions of the flat bread, they set to work dipping their pieces into the fragrant stew. The captives grudgingly admitted to themselves that the food was quite savory, but the meal would have been much more pleasant if it were eaten in some other circumstance.

Frumgár, ever curious, could no longer hide his puzzlement at the strange, small pickled fruit. Gulping slightly, he mustered his courage and asked, "Sir, what is this green thing?"

"Olives," the slaver replied. "Perhaps you consider them quite sour. You must develop a taste for their unique flavor."

"Sir, they are quite good actually, though a little bitter," Frumgár affirmed, his lips puckering slightly. 

Fritha sampled one, but found the taste set his teeth on edge. Unsure of what to do with the unchewed fruit, he looked all about him before holding his cupped hand to his mouth. Pretending to cough, he spat the pulp out in his palm. When he was certain that no one was looking, he furtively tossed the fruit unnoticed under the table, where it rolled across the cream-colored carpet and bumped against the toe of Esarhaddon's slipper. As Esarhaddon reached across the table for a piece of goat cheese, he moved his foot and, unknown to him, his sole came down upon the olive, smashing its juices into the fine rug.

The main meal completed, the servants cleared away the dishes and brought in the dessert of dried fruits, raisins, figs, and light, flavorful confections. Goldwyn had already heard about these delicacies from the women that morning. Though she was suspicious that the food might have been drugged, still she was curious and sampled several of the light cakes. She noticed that Fritha was gorging himself, his mouth barely able to hold all the food which he had forced into his bulging cheeks.

"Fritha, stop stuffing your mouth with food," Goldwyn chided.

"Mmmfh," he struggled to speak with a too-full mouth, but was halted by his mother's disapproval in Rohirric.

"Do not speak with food in your mouth!" Goldwyn stifled a nervous titter as Fritha forced down his mouthful.

"Lad, are you trying to imitate a snake swallowing a whole frog?" the slaver chuckled. The deep, rumbling sound was a harmless one, reassuring in its normal, everyday manner. Still, Goldwyn's pride and hatred strove against any inner admittance that the men of the enemy might possess hearts that were the same as those from the Western branch of the race of Men.

"Sir, not understand," Fritha flushed as he felt all eyes upon him. The boy struggled to comprehend such a long sentence in the unfamiliar speech. His face reddened even more as his mother translated the words for him.

"Sorry," he grinned sheepishly at the slaver.

Leaning over closer to his brother, Frumgár cupped his hand over Fritha's ear and whispered, "Pig!" Fritha's mouth opened to counter his brother's insult, but a warning look from Goldwyn silenced both boys.

"Most satisfying," the slaver praised the pastries as he brought a white linen napkin to his lips, wiping off the excess crumbs. The last round of the meal finished, the servants cleared the table. The slavers' guests were surprised when the slaves held basins under their hands and then poured rosewater over their fingers to cleanse them. Small glasses of sweet tea were next served. The slaver rested his lower back against the piled cushions and smiled in satisfaction as he drank from his glass of tea. 

Goldwyn felt the heat of the slaver's body as he sat close to her, a proximity which seemed shamelessly intimate. To ease her distress, Goldwyn resolved to make an attempt at conversation with the rude Southron. If nothing else, the sound of her own voice might provide a distraction for her unsettled nerves. 

"Sir, do you have any children?" she ventured, a safe subject in any culture or society, she presumed.

"Aye, Madame, there are two still living, and seven in the tomb."

"Oh, sir, I am sorry to learn that so many of your children have died!" Goldwyn murmured apologetically, wondering if she had committed some breach in Southron etiquette by bringing up such a solemn matter.

"More died than have survived." Though the man's lips still held a smile, pain and deep hurt flickered in his eyes.

"Sir, I did not mean to cause you pain!"

"Certainly, talk of this brings me sadness, but you asked the question in ignorance, and not with the intent to cause me grief."

"Please speak no more about it, sir!"

"No, Madame. It is good to mention the dead, for this is another way to keep their memories close to us. Perhaps, as some say, they listen from a far distant paradise and wish to hear their names spoken by the living."

"Please, sir, I should like to hear of your sons," spoke up Frumgár. "Were they riders in the cavalry?"

"Nay, lad. The Dark Horseman came for them when they were only children."

"How sad, sir!" exclaimed Frumgár, a kind-hearted boy who found it difficult to dislike anyone, save for the vilest and most cruel. His tender years made him far more tolerant of new customs and ideas than was his elder brother. "I should like to hear something about them, that is... if you do not mind telling, sir."

"Since you take an interest, young man, aye, I will tell you of their fates!" Esarhaddon gave the boy a benevolent, fatherly sort of smile and began his tale. "When I was a youth of seventeen, upon the advice of my parents, I chose a young maiden named Ninashme as my bride. When, in the course of time, it was determined that she was carrying my child, great was the rejoicing. 

"We lived in Harad at that time, where my family had been slave traders for untold generations. We left everything to come north with my elder brother, Zannanza. He and I had decided to leave our kith and kin and establish a slave merchandising house in Nurn, where the opportunity to make wealth seemed far more promising than in our own country." A sad look came over the Southron's face, and his eyelids drooped dolefully. "On the journey from Harad to Nurn, Ninashme became ill with the desert fever and lost the child. They are both buried in Harad."

"Such a grievous loss, sir! I am sorry!" Goldwyn wished that she had never inquired about his children. She was relieved that Fritha knew little of the Common Speech, for surely the subject of more death would only bring added grief to his already troubled dreams. Frumgár would turn a sympathetic ear to any and all, while Fródwine hid any compassion behind eyes that smoldered in deep, internal rages. Perhaps the eldest was the most fortunate of her three sons, for he had found a certain strength and resolve in dwelling upon his festering hatred.

"A year after my first wife died, I sent a courier with a message to my parents in Harad and requested them to find a wife to my liking. Two met their approval and after deliberations between the families, a bride price was settled and the papers were signed. After a wedding in Harad by proxy, my wives were sent by caravan to me in Nurn."

"Two wives?" Goldwyn started to put her hand to her bosom in shock, but restrained the urge, for the gesture would only call more attention to her barely covered breasts.

"Aye, two! The custom in Harad allows men to take as many wives and concubines as they can afford to keep. My second and third wives were sisters. Surely even in Rohan it is known that it is better for a man to marry sisters?" He turned and looked at her, a questioning expression in his dark brown, almost black, eyes.

"Surely, sir, not at the same time!"

"Ah, yes, sometimes it is easy to forget that the customs of the North do not allow for the marrying of more than one wife at a time. Men of the South have long known that marrying sisters makes for a satisfactory arrangement. On account of their close kinship, it is unlikely that one sister will become so jealous of the other that she will raise her hand against the other woman or her children. The whole arrangement can prove most felicitous. 

"These two wives were excellent in all their ways, modest, diffident, and very loving. Their satin skin was as white and soft as the breast of a dove; their exquisite faces were as round as the full moon shining; their hair was as dark as a raven's wing, luxuriant, and hung almost to their knees; and their eyes - ah! their eyes - they shone like the brown of amber and their depths held only love for me! Their young breasts were set high, full and rounded like the richest of Khandian melons; their navels were like jeweled cups set within their plump and tender stomachs; the fruits that nestled between their sculpted thighs were as succulent as peaches moistened with the freshest of dew; their legs were like columns of alabaster; their ankles were slim and their feet were tiny, their toenails colored with deep amber henna." Esarhaddon fell silent, a look of deep pain upon his face. "How beautiful they were! I can see them even now...

"Upon the wedding night, I summoned them both to my couch and enjoyed the elder first, then the younger in her turn. Each night thereafter for thirty nights - the circuit of the moon - I would have no other woman in my bed save these two, for I wished to plough their fertile fields and plant my seed within them. They quickly became treasured jewels in my household, and many were the gifts I bestowed upon them - fine carpets, bolts of satin and silk, beads of glass, coins of gold, inlaid boxes of tortoiseshell and mother-of-pearl.

"Within the first year of the marriage, my second wife bore me a son, and shortly after, her sister gave me a daughter. My joy was complete when, the following year, my wives again conceived. My jubilation was not to endure, however. My second wife's next child was stillborn, and she followed him in death a short time later. The next year and the year after that, my third wife wreathed my life with sweet smelling incense and garlands of gladness when she gave birth to two sons.

"Alas! My bliss and happiness were again turned to ashes when the spectre of plague fell across the land, and the dark birds sang dirges from the cypress and plane trees. My remaining children perished, and my third wife fell gravely ill. Fate had not decreed that she should perish, though, for she slowly recovered and later bore me two more sons in the fullness of time. But again, the black clouds gathered overhead as the death birds shrieked their shrill cries and my third wife perished only last year in the throes of childbirth! After these great losses, all that was left to me were her two sons."

"How old are your sons, sir?" Frumgár asked, genuinely interested.

"One is six and the other is eleven."

"I suppose you have remarried?" Goldwyn ventured to ask, almost afraid to hear the answer, for she expected to hear yet another unfolding tale of tragedy upon tragedy. 

"There are two concubines who dwell in my harem. One - a sulky vixen of Harad - I have had for seven years, but in all of the time that I have possessed her, her womb has remained as resolutely closed as a barred door. The other, an ebony beauty of Far Harad, has greatly pleased me in the scant time that I have owned her, for her womb has already quickened with my seed."

With these last comments, the slaver again turned his dark, sensual eyes upon Goldwyn, and, dropping to her exposed bosom, their smoldering inner fires began to glow. She felt her cheeks coloring in an uncomfortable blush. In an attempt to conceal her growing embarrassment, she would push the conversation back to something not so intimate. "Well, sir, I trust that sorrows will stay far away from you, and the ravages of the plague have ended."

"Madame, the plague is common in the lands of the South and East, afflicting the people with misery and death. Often there are many years between each plague, but pestilence will come, as surely as fate has decreed that they will. Many times, the disease is worse during the military campaign season from April until autumn. My suspicions are that since there is more travel then, pestilences from other lands are carried in by the soldiers and the sailors."

An sudden unsettling thought clenched at Goldwyn's heart, filling her mind with worry and dread. "Sir! Then we are in the midst of that season!"

Esarhaddon laid a firm, strong hand on her arm. "No need for alarm, Madame. When we were in the conquered city, there was no word from the dispatch riders of any outbreak of the plague, and so we can at least feel safe that there has been nothing worthy of report."

"Mother, what did he say?" asked Fritha as he observed the furrowed lines of concern etched on Esarhaddon's forehead. The expressions on the faces of Fródwine and Frumgár, who understood more of the Common Speech, turned grave, but neither boy spoke his misgivings.

"Nothing you should be concerned about, son," Goldwyn smiled as she attempted to reassure him that there was no cause for alarm. "Even more reason to escape," she silently reasoned. 

"Sir, your words do little to lessen my fears," she told the slaver. "You tell me now that you are taking us into a land that is oft wracked with plague! Would it not make more sense to release all the children before they become exposed to these diseases and send them back to Rohan where they would be far safer?"

"Madame, surely you cannot be serious!" Esarhaddon's startled eyes gaped at her in dismay. "You are distraught, and your reason has failed you! The idea is absolutely preposterous! Lest you are unaware, a policy of total war is in effect in your country! Doubtless, battles are still being fought, the outcome hanging in the balances. Would you let the slight possibility of sickness fill you with such dread that you would send your sons back into a wasteland, there to perish of starvation? You saw the appearance of the conquered lands, the blight and devastation. Much of your own country is a mirror of what you have seen! Your sons are fine, brave lads, and I would not have the crime of sending them to meaningless deaths upon my soul! Enough of such nonsense! You must curb your agitated emotions, my lady, and use reason!"

Esarhaddon's words stung Goldwyn, for she knew deep within her heart that he was correct. In her perverse stubbornness, though, she refused even to acknowledge the shadow of doubt. She truly believed that fate was with the righteous people of the West, and that the escape attempt was meritorious, if for no other reason than to give their children the opportunity to grow up in a free land. The women and children would find sanctuary in the mountains, and there wait until life came back to the lands.

Even though the favorable outcome was as good as assured in her mind, Goldwyn had allowed the tension of the setting to unsettle her emotions, and thus she had spoken amiss. She must say nothing to anger or upset this powerful man! All her plans would be for naught if the slaver had the slightest of suspicion that perhaps the captives might be planning an escape. She must keep his thoughts from drifting in that direction.

"Forgive me, sir, it was a foolish thing to say," Goldwyn offered in false regret, her eyes not meeting those of the slaver. She refused to believe that her country lay in such hopeless devastation as the slaver would lead her to believe.

"Now, my lady, I see that the eyes of your sons grow heavy with sleep, and I shall keep them no longer." Esarhaddon looked across the table at the three boys. "I have observed that they have found great enjoyment in partaking of the sugary delicacies of the South. Before your sons leave, I will see that my servants supply them with parcels of dried fruit, candies and cakes."

In sign language, the slaver conveyed his orders to a nearby servant boy. The boy signaled his understanding, and with a bow, he was quickly away. Soon a guard appeared at the open flap of the pavilion and waited quietly.

Esarhaddon rose to his feet, a signal that it was time for his guests to depart. "Good night, lads. May your sleep be both pleasant and strengthening."

Goldwyn cleared her throat, preparing to say the expected courteous things that guests are supposed to say to their host in gratitude for a good supper. "Sir, thank you for this most pleasing of meals. My sons and I are grateful for your  generous hospitality. I see that you have provided a guard to see us back."

Fródwine, his mouth set in a tight line, offered curtly, "As my mother says, the meal was good."

"Fruit and candy, sir?" Frumgár exclaimed excitedly. The slaver nodded. "Thank you, sir!"

"Mother? Did he say cakes?" asked Fritha.

"Aye, son, that he did," Goldwyn smiled at her son and then turned to Esarhaddon. "Now, sir, we are quite ready to leave."

"Your sons are excused to depart, but you are to remain here. There are things of which I wish to speak."

Fródwine and Frumgár's eyes darted questioningly to their mother. Fritha was confused, able to understand only a portion of the words which the slaver had spoken.

"Fródwine and Frumgár, do as he says and do not argue with me!" Goldwyn felt her hands trembling as an icy shiver of fear raced its way up her spine. Her hot-blooded elder son's temper was beginning to flare, and she wished, above all things, to avoid another altercation such as the one earlier. "Fritha, go with your brothers back to the camp. I will soon join you there."

"Lady, you are speaking in your peoples' language," Esarhaddon admonished her. "I prefer that you do not do that, but I fully realize that your sons do not comprehend much of the Common. I will allow this mistake to be overlooked for now, but in the future, your sons will learn to speak in Common Speech, Black Speech, and varying tongues of Harad and Khand! Finish whatever you have to say!" The slaver walked to the dividing curtains between the two sections of the tent.

"Yes, sir, they will learn all that is needed," Goldwyn lied.

"Mother, we will do as you say now, but if this barbarian lays a hand upon you, I will tear out his heart with my bare hands! Mother, Mother, I dread to leave you in his keeping!" Fródwine's face was turning red with rage and Goldwyn prayed that he would keep his tongue silent. "This man is evil! I hate him and fear him for your sake!"

"Fródwine, my son, I will be safe!" Goldwyn walked over to her sons and kissed each one. "Good night, sons. I shall return to you soon." She held the gaze of each with her eyes, hoping they would feel confidence and encouragement there, even though she herself did not feel any. Her gaze lingered long upon them until the guard insisted that they leave the tent with him. 

The slaver signed to the servants that he wished seclusion, and soon he and the woman were alone.

"Madame," his voice was a raspy whisper, "I have waited all afternoon for this moment..."


	20. The Sweetest Dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

"You said you wished to talk, sir?" Goldwyn turned to face the slaver. She knew she was speaking too fast, too loud, her words rushing together. "My sons and I have already expressed our gratitude to you for your hospitality. I do not consider that we have anything further to discuss."

"That is where you are incorrect, Madame." Esarhaddon moved closer to her, his hands reaching for her shoulders as she flinched away in revulsion. "From the first moment that you caught my attention, I knew that I must have you," he murmured as he reached out for her again.

"What did you say?" she gasped nervously as she took a step backward. Shuddering, she looked into the torrid pools of his sensual dark eyes, eyes which were smoldering with pure animal lust.

"Why must I always repeat what I say to you? Are your ears stopped up? Surely you can understand that I desire you!" His eyebrows rose questioningly.

"No!" she cried out in horror, her fingers clenching the bodice of her dress. Her heart was pounding, her breath coming hard and heavy.

"When I return to Nurn, I will make you my third concubine," he whispered hoarsely as he caught her, holding her trembling body tightly to his chest. "Until then I will seek my pleasure with you whenever I desire." He licked his way down her cheek, his beard rubbing against her face, his tongue warm and slightly rasping. The slaver could see the revulsion in her eyes, but her fear only excited him more.

"I do not wish to be your concubine or anything else!" Her hands braced against him, she tried to push him away, but his muscular chest was like a stone wall, hard and immovable. "Now release me!"

"Do not be foolish, woman! You should count yourself fortunate!" She was proving more difficult than he had expected. "Why do you fight me? Surely you must realize that an older woman such as yourself, no longer a virgin, has only a limited appeal!" His fingers dug deeply into her back. "There are far worse men than I who could claim you - evil men, wicked men! I am a patient man and a kind master. You will know my whip only when you displease me, or if you desire the soft leather lashes to massage you into ecstasy during games of pleasure." The heat of passion raced wildly through his blood as he looked into her frightened eyes. 

"You have a foul mouth and the tact of a buffoon!" Goldwyn spat angrily, her fists clenched. "Only savages beat women!" She wished she had a knife to plunge into his heart, but she was defenseless against this brute of a man.

"And only savage women deserve to be beaten!" he warned her, for she had tried his patience. "But let us not bait one another upon this night. Even with all your insufficiencies, I am willing to buy you and your sons... that is, if you still wish to keep them." His patronizing voice held a hint of amusement. Damn her anyway! How he wanted her! His lust was high, and even though she was a contumacious wench, she excited him as much as any virgin! He would enjoy taming this cold beauty! He would play with her a while and then indulge himself in the satisfaction of the conquest.

"My sons?" Goldwyn gasped in horror, struggling in his unrelenting grasp. "Of course, I want to keep them! What sort of question is this?"

"A reasonable question... some people are glad to be rid of their children." Esarhaddon shrugged, the matter of little consequence to him. "I am considering purchasing your boys to be servants and companions to my sons." He looked deeply into her eyes, willing her to understand the importance of the gift which he was bestowing upon her. "Besides the betterment they will derive from being servants in my house, they will be given a great treasure which they would have never received in their own land - learning and knowledge - the skills of reading, writing and mathematics. They will not grow up in ignorance; you may be assured of that!"

He chuckled and then smiled at her. Her flesh was so soft in his hands! "You, a lowly woman of a conquered enemy, have gained favor with me in a short period of time. Because of this growing regard, I will be generous and allow you, an ignorant woman, to learn to read. Someday when you are summoned to my chambers, you will be able to recite poetry and play a musical instrument. Now that I have settled all your questions, I want you to remain very still."

"Why?" she cried out in terror, fearing what he would do to her.

"This," he explained as he embraced her unwilling mouth with his full, sensual lips, demanding entry with his probing tongue.

"You cannot! I will not allow this!" Goldwyn opened her mouth in protest, and boldly he took the opportunity to drive his tongue through the breach. His mustache and beard tickled her upper lip and chin as he tasted the succulent honey of her mouth. Gripping her tightly around the waist with one arm, his free hand probed deeply between her cleavage, grasping a snowy white globe and forcing its rosebud to rise against her will.

"My frigid Northern beauty," he gasped, "you should never be ashamed of possessing such an intoxicating bosom! Though your paps have suckled three babes, they have retained their bewitching charm and firm integrity! Ever would I wish to fondle them!" 

"No!" she spat out. Once again, she attempted to push him away, but she might as well have tried to slide a block of solid iron up the steep face of a tall mountain. 

Giving her protesting mouth a few more salacious thrusts of his rampaging tongue, the slaver grinned that roguish smirk which he must have spent long hours practicing before achieving such matchless perfection. His eyes blazing with carnal lust, Esarhaddon tore the material of her bodice to the side, revealing a soft white breast. She gasped as he squeezed the ivory mound in his warm hand. His tongue traced patterns of fiery heat down her throat and over her breastbone until his teeth firmly encircled her hard, rosy nipple. 

"Damn you!" Goldwyn cried, incensed. "You are every bit the barbarous lecher I knew you to be!"

"And you find this quality very appealing, do you not? Admit what we both know; only one caress from my hand will draw the dew of delight to the surface of your intimate valley." Lifting his head from her outraged breast, he grinned at her in the most lewd fashion, an eye winking rakishly.

Goldwyn's hand flew back and slapped him fiercely across the mouth.

Esarhaddon's head jerked back, but he only laughed mockingly at her as he rubbed his hand across his mouth. "There is no refusing me, for I am your master! Tell me - does knowing that I control your life excite you?"

"No!" she shrieked as she jerked the cloth back over her exposed flesh. As she clutched the material protectively, her eyes flashed warnings at her tormentor. 

"It will in time, once you become accustomed to the idea."

"Never could I grow used to being any man's whore!"

"Not a whore, Goldwyn; but a pampered concubine," he explained, his voice a little less threatening. "You would want for nothing, and your sons would have all the advantages of being trained in my household." He gripped her upper arms, forcing her to look at him. "But why do we waste words! I feel the heat that is building inside you! During the meal, I restrained my passions, but I will restrain them no longer!"

"Unless they are deranged louts, men of the West do not force themselves upon women!" Goldwyn hissed in fury. Twisting her arms, she managed to break free of his grasp and shrink away. "I would not expect you to understand such a concept, for you and your people have sunk into a pit of debauchery from which you will never extricate yourselves!" she panted as she faced him.

The slaver crossed his arms over his chest and laughed at her. "Given the chance, how many of your own men would do the same, justifying their actions by claiming that the lesser men deserved no better?" Esarhaddon would not let this fiery tempered woman anger him. He resolved to reason with her, convincing her of her error and his superior wisdom. "In days long past, the ancestors of the self-righteous Gondorians sailed to these lands and took many of my own ancestors as slaves back to their precious island. They forced the women to become their slave girls, mistresses and wives; others they sacrificed in their temple!" Was she unable to understand even the simplest things!

"I do not believe such tales! They are lies, all lies!"

"And I could never imagine that such absurd babblings would come from the mouth of an otherwise sensible woman. Goldwyn, be reasonable." The look of hot desire unmistakable in his eyes, he stepped towards her. Backing away from him, she felt the edge of the low table pressing against her calves. Quickly regaining his grip upon her shoulders, he grinned at her, his eyes holding hers captive in passionate bondage. "Do you forget so quickly what I have just said?" He felt like shaking her. "In my harem, you will not be considered a whore, but a respectable woman! Regardless of what falsehoods others have told you, concubinage is an honorable estate, for a concubine is a lesser wife, not a mistress!"

"I strenuously reject to being either!" Once again she raised her hands to push him away, but this time he caught them firmly in his own. 

"Whether you object or not, my mind is already set. You will be my third concubine, a high rank in my household. I am a patient man, but I can be patient no longer!" His voice was a hoarse moan as he pulled one of her hands down and forced it over his heated shaft. "Can you not see how I desire you!"

"A lecher like you pants for every woman whom he sees!" Goldwyn yanked her hand away as though it had been thrust into a fire. The slaver recaptured her resisting hand in his strong fingers and dragged it again to the potent force that throbbed at the source of his masculinity.

"Satisfy this raging demon which you have summoned!" Esarhaddon commanded, his voice thick with desire. "Bid it come forth and find release in the cooling dews of your verdant garden of delight!"

"By all that is honorable and just and good in this world, I refuse this most odious proposal!" Once again she jerked her hand away from his grasp.

"Not a proposal, Goldwyn - a demand! Now stop these ridiculous protests and lie with me this night!" he rasped angrily. "Yield yourself up to my caresses! I can promise you that you will know such rapturous bliss that you will faint away in my arms! Surely since your husband has been gone, you have craved the touch of a man? Convince me that you do not enjoy this!" One of his large hands dipped low to the triangle formed by the juncture of her thighs, his fingers pressing firmly against that wooded grove sacred to the Goddess of Love.

Goldwyn knew that it was hopeless to try to resist the advances of this powerful man. He was inflamed, his ardor massively apparent by the throbbing bulge in his pantaloons. He would ravish her, no matter how much she protested. But perhaps she could forestall this disgrace. She had to escape somehow! She must return to the other women! She needed to think, to plan, but the hand which roved so impudently over her intimate parts had made her furious. How she wished she could kill him! She would never respond to him, the hated Southron!

There was no father, brother or husband to save her, no one to rescue her from the heated embrace of this brutal man! She must use her wits and rely upon her own resources. If the night's planned escape proved successful, she would never have to see this Southern scoundrel again. In the meantime, she must find some way to evade his advances! Though the thought of playing the coquette sickened her, perhaps she could make this lust-besotted fool believe that he had been successful in seducing her. Hopefully, he would be so flattered that he would be willing to grant her any favor.

"You are a very handsome man, sir, and perhaps you could beguile me." She laughed softly. "But you have given me no time to think and to plan," she murmured as she brought her fingers up and shyly touched his bearded cheek.

"Think and plan?" Esarhaddon's dark eyebrows drew upward in a questioning scowl. "Woman, you talk far too much and confuse yourself! You attempt to stall what is inevitable, Madame, but I will not be denied!"

"No, no, that is not it at all," she insisted, trying to keep as calm as possible. "You must understand, sir, that it will be difficult to explain this to my sons. I promised them that I would return to them tonight. When I do not go back to them immediately, they will be terrified. I know my sons, and they will hate you even more than they do now! Time is needed to explain that you have offered to... to wed me and give us a home." That sounded all wrong, she knew. "He is not marrying me; he is forcing me to be his whore!" she fumed to herself. "Just so he does not detain me any longer tonight and lets me go. If we can only get away, there will not be another opportunity for him to achieve his wicked designs!"

Her eyes lifted to his, and she discovered that his dark orbs had lost their anger. His look was pensive; no doubt he was weighing her words as he stroked over her hand. "Fritha is too young to understand, but he is not too young to sense when something is amiss. My middle son is a kind and compassionate boy; his heart will be broken to think his mother has been used despicably. The elder will be enraged, and perhaps will try to kill you someday. You have said that you want my sons to be servants and companions to yours, but you are building on unsteady ground if I do not reconcile them to the idea that I welcome this... this... arrangement." Her voice was pleading.

The slaver's eyes narrowed. "Your sons will become accustomed to this. You treat them as though they are weaklings! Forget them for now! I will not have this delay, for my loins burn hot for you!" he growled angrily, clenching her hand in a tight grip. "When I want a woman, I want her now!"

"I ask only for this simple boon... then when I am content in my heart that my sons understand that I agree to this arrangement, I will have a better disposition and hold pleasant thoughts for you." She hoped she sounded convincing.

"I am not seeking a better disposition and pleasant thoughts, woman! I am seeking passion and reciprocation of my ardor! I want you to burn with desire for me as I burn for you!" His breath came hard and heavy, and his face reddened under his tawny skin.

"Then, perhaps, sir, you can melt my icy heart with your amorous heat and fuel my fires so that they match your own." Goldwyn smiled, hoping that her blue eyes held the fire of sensuality. Her lips parted, she kissed him lightly, brushing the back of her hand gently across his cheek. "I have needed a man who could reawaken me, for my passions have been stricken by a long drought. But please, sir, not until I have made my sons understand."

"Your dearth will soon be filled, I can promise you that!" Esarhaddon assured her, the gleam of lust in his eyes. "But I will grant that there is a certain wisdom in your words," he replied, savoring the cool touch of her hand. Perhaps he should wait. What would one more night matter? There were plenty of other women to warm his bed. "If I agree to this delay, you must explain to your sons that, of your own accord and free will, you have accepted my offer and that I did not force you. Give me this promise, and I will grant you a reprieve until tomorrow night. Then I expect to collect." He chuckled, his dark pupils swirling deep pools that bade her to plunge into their depths and drown there with him.

"Thank you, my handsome Southron," Goldwyn whispered against his lips. She swept her long eyelashes down over her eyes, hoping that she looked at least somewhat seductive. Blushing, she drew aside the cloth covering her bosom and placed his right hand upon an alabaster breast. "That is all that I ask, and then I will go to your bed more willing. But tonight I must explain this all to my sons. Please give me time!"

His eyes gleaming, the slaver's hand kneaded the soft flesh of the ivory globe. "Only a delay, Madame, but I will have you in my bed tomorrow night, and you will enjoy it! Make no mistake about that!"

"Surely," she murmured as she touched the tip of her tongue to his lips and then sucked his lower lip into her mouth.

***

After the woman had been escorted out of his tent by the guards, Esarhaddon stroked his beard thoughtfully, his other hand resting on his throbbing groin. The Northern woman was unbearably obstinate, but he found that quality stimulating. She was not like the obedient women of the South who had been trained from childhood to accept their position as subservient to males. There would be a challenge in taming her, but he would tame this Northern beauty and she would beg to be summoned to his chambers.

He never should have allowed her to leave his tent without satisfying his lust, but, still, he reflected, perhaps the woman had been correct in one respect. If her sons never accepted him, there would always be trouble for him in the future, and, if possible, he preferred that his household be one of peace, where he could enjoy life and all that he had gained from his labors.

These Northern women were stiff-necked and proud. Esarhaddon thought back to the night before when he had ordered three of the other captive Rohirric women to his pavilion. After surveying their demeanor and physical attributes, he had rejected two of them as not being worthy of his further consideration. These he had consigned to his men for their entertainment. After some harmless dallying with them, the men had returned them undamaged. Only one he had found of sufficient quality to warrant a closer examination. Much against her protests, he had forced her to submit to his will, and then used her to his satisfaction.

"What was her name?" Esarhaddon attempted to recollect. His memory was imprecise for a while, for he could barely pronounce the foreign word. "Waerburh, yes, that was it."

Though the woman was a superb beauty, such a one as she would never be considered a worthy addition to his harem. After talking with her, he had found that she was a somber, listless woman with a mouth that seldom brightened into a smile. There were other faults with her that were even worse. He considered that should her wit be compared with that of a cow, the beast would easily prove to be the more intelligent. A man needed distractions besides those of a carnal nature, and while even a dull woman could satisfy his physical appetite, she would leave his soul and mind unsatisfied. But he had been hungry for flesh, and he had enjoyed her for the one thing she was best suited - a conduit for his lust.

Though Esarhaddon had found that Goldwyn oft spoke foolishly and impetuously, she had a native intelligence about her that he found appealing. In addition to this attribute, he had observed that she was a good mother to her three pups, controlling them with a strong though loving hand. A comely slave girl could appease his amorous needs, but the women who were chosen to bear his children must be of higher quality, and he would have a child from Goldwyn! 

Long ago, the wise elders among the patriarchal nomadic people of the South and East had said - and said truly - that the wife was the tent pole upon which the whole structure rested. The woman was the one person who provided stability through famines, pestilences and wars; the one who kept the braziers glowing while the men were away on raids or at war; and the pillar and bedrock of the family. Without her, there was only the wasteland and the sorrowing plain, the hot, blowing winds of the desert, infertility and want. While in her tent or house, she was the guide and guardian of anyone and everything that fell under her influence. This had been true in regard to his own mother, and it would hold true until the last day.

Esarhaddon's two sons had been motherless since his third wife had perished in childbirth the year before. While the elder, at eleven years of age, was approaching puberty and his entry into the world of men, the younger boy was still very much a child. The boy still cried for his mother and missed his two older brothers, sister, and half-brother who had died. Being around this woman might be beneficial to the boy.

To fill his sorrowing heart and soothe his aching loins, Esarhaddon had taken a second concubine. A slave purchased upon the auction block by one of his agents, she was a loving, sensual creature who had soon become his favorite. As he thought of her in his restlessness, the slaver stroked his growing column. With longing he remembered how her dark eyes blazed in passion, her ebony limbs twining around him tightly when they clashed in the intimate embrace of love. He compared her dark, dusty beauty to a black pearl of the most exquisite elegance. Those fools in the West who spoke of the people of Far Harad as "troll-men" surely knew little about them or their women.

Little more than a child herself, the burden of being mother to his two sons was far beyond her abilities. Esarhaddon had plowed and seeded her virgin field soon after he had purchased her, and when he had left for the West, she was growing large with his child. Soon she would be occupied with her own babe and would have little time to watch over his older sons.

Esarhaddon's other concubine, whom he had attempted unsuccessfully to fill with his child for seven years, was a selfish woman. While she did not openly shun them, he had always sensed that she was far more comfortable when his sons were absent from her presence.

This golden-haired beauty from Rohan, on the other hand, was far older than either of his two concubines, and had children of her own. Certainly such a motherly woman could open her heart to embrace two motherless sons. Yes, his sons needed a mother, and he had already chosen her. Though she rejected the idea, Esarhaddon was a persuasive man, and Goldwyn would soon come to accept him and his sons.

In the interim, there was the matter of the raging need between his legs, and he hungered to have that ache attended to as soon as possible. He looked to the eunuch who hovered nearby.

"Summon Kishi to my tent!"

***  
NOTES

"He [the Witch-king] was now destroyed; but Gothmog the lieutenant of Morgul had flung them into the fray; Easterlings with axes, and Variags of Khand, Southrons in scarlet, and out of Far Harad black men like half-trolls with white eyes and red tongues." - The Battle of Pelenor Fields, The Return of the King, p. 121


	21. Not Without Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

Using a long stick, Fródwine shoved the ends of the burnt off logs into the center of the fire and tossed in a few more logs to revive the blaze. Over the leaping flames, he saw the approach of two figures as they neared the edge of the slave camp. "Mother!" he cried, his heart leaping in his chest. Tossing the stick into the fire, he ran towards her. The guard escorting Goldwyn barely acknowledged the boy's presence. Turning without a word, the man strode back in the direction which they had come. Fródwine allowed his mother to hug him, even though he considered himself far too old for such things.

"Frumgár and Fritha?" she asked, a mother's concern in her voice.

"Fritha cried himself to sleep, and Frumgár fell asleep soon after."

Goldwyn gave him a wan smile, another squeeze, and then released him. "Come, let us sit with the others by the fire. You should hear all that we have to discuss. After all, you are the last of our warriors, the oldest boy left to us."

Fródwine allowed her to lead them back towards the fire. He knew she was trying to say all the correct things and make him feel better, but her words only made him feel worse. Even if he was only eleven years old, he had sense enough now to know that the best course was simply to humor her. Sometimes that was the only way he could deal with adults. He would not tell his mother that he did not consider himself as all that brave. Let her think whatever she wanted. He had felt lost all the time that she had been gone, but there was no reason to admit that to anyone. Words like that would only add more worry to what she already had to bear.

"I will do the best I can, Mother." He managed a smile that he did not feel. There, that sounded right. At least maybe comforting.

"That is all any of us can do." Her smile was as false as his.

"What did that man want with you?" he asked suspiciously.

"That is unimportant now... what you must concentrate upon is escaping."

"All my thoughts are directed towards that end, but I have no real plans. Just run, I guess, and trust to chance." Fródwine sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. "Not very good, is it?"

"Mine is not much better," Goldwyn confessed with a brave smile. "If the women who are staying can cause enough distraction, at least some of us might be able to escape in the confusion. Both of us must take care of your brothers." She put her hand on his shoulder. "I am going to be relying a great deal upon you to help me keep them safe. Will you do that?"

"I will try my best, Mother." Fródwine gulped self-consciously, his throat bobbing. He hoped she did not notice his nervousness but she would; she always noticed things like that.

As they neared the fire, the other captives who had gathered there looked towards them. "It is a chance, an opportunity... our last one," Goldwyn whispered. "Now we should visit with the others." Mother and son shared a glance that went beyond words, that spoke of love, family ties and loyalties, memories and times shared.

Her son beside her, Goldwyn warmed her hands over the fire. She had expected the other women to rush up to her and ask their incessant questions. She was pleased that they had given Fródwine and her some time to talk first. Now the questions would come.

"Goldwyn! We were all so worried!" Leofgifu moved closer to her, sharing the warmth of the fire. Soon other women and girls drew nearer, the shadows hiding their faces and the fear and apprehension they all felt.

"Leofgifu, we will not talk about what happened in... his... tent tonight; there are too many other things that must be said, and little time to say them." Goldwyn spoke in Rohirric, confident that the patrolling guard who passed occasionally was ignorant of the language. 

"I wish that I could persuade you not to go." Leofgifu scarcely knew what to say. This could well be the last time that she would ever see her friends and her nieces. How does one say goodbye forever? "Do not go," she whispered when she wanted to scream. "Please do not go!" She knew that when strong minds were fixed on a course, they seldom could be turned aside. Even if her words rang as true as a hammer striking metal and her simple speech could be magically transformed into impassioned rhetoric, still the others would not listen. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Leofgifu, why can you not see the wisdom of our leaving?" Why did Leofgifu have to be so stubborn? Goldwyn wondered. The woman had no more courage than an old hen! "The slaver has already raped Waerburh in the most obscene and cruel of ways! Is that not justification enough for this attempt to escape? Do we want to stay here and be left to _his_ mercy?" She paused, looking around at the women gathered about the campfire. "Though you did not say it, I know what you were all wondering about me." Her eyes flashed. "Yes, if you want to know, his intent was to ravish me tonight!" 

As a murmur of outrage went up from the crowd, Goldwyn walked to a nearby rock outcropping and stood atop it so that all could see her. The flames burnished her hair with gold and shadows, as though a burning crown sat upon her head. Waerburh left her place at the edge of the gathering and stood beside her. As the two women looked into the other's eyes, they knew they were united. 

Goldwyn raised her voice, for what would it matter if a patrolling guard should come near and hear them? He would not know their language. "My sisters! Too long have we sat idling and dreaming that we were back at our homes. We dawdle as old women, befuddled as we mourn for the days that are past. Eorl and his men are long dead, and their strength has faded." She looked around at the shaded faces of the other women, and could read nothing there for the darkness.

Goldwyn inhaled deeply. "Our braziers are cold and dead and there is no hand to tend them. The halls are silent; the music stilled. The fields lie fallow and no one guards the flocks that now run wild upon the hillside. The cradle is smashed and empty, and the sword and shield lie rusting in a far away field." She bowed her head, and when she raised it, there was fury in her eyes.

"Aye, aye," the women murmured in low voices.

"Yet we still cling to the vain hope that someone will rescue us ere it is too late. Do you not realize by now that it is already too late!" Goldwyn was breathing harder, the power of conviction in her voice. She raised her hand in a clenched fist. "Do not wait for help to arrive! There is no one now left to rescue us. We are alone!"

"'Tis hopeless," Leofgifu muttered, shaking her head as the timid ones echoed her words in somber chorus.

"Alone, but not hopeless." Goldwyn turned to face Leofgifu. "Where before there was only darkness, hope now lights the skies! Why do we tarry? The sun has shone for three days. Can you not see?" She shook her fist. "Are you so blind that you cannot know a token when you see one? The reborn sun is the sign that our venture is smiled upon!"

"By whom, Goldwyn?" Leofgifu asked quietly. Surely she did not think that her quest was now divinely ordained.

"By our ancestors who sit in the halls of the dead and look down upon us!" Goldwyn was close to shouting. "Shall we go to them in disgrace, saying that we were too cowardly to act? Will you go to them in mortification, your head hanging down in shame? Tell me you have the gall to face these brave men and women and say, 'I was too afraid even to try!'" Angrily, she shook her tresses of gold as she raised her fist higher. "How will you explain that to them when you face them? Will you deny that you are their daughters, their kinswomen? Will you turn your heads aside and mock the legacy which they have bestowed upon us?"

Speechless and in awe, Fródwine looked up at his mother. She seemed to have grown taller in the firelight, transformed into a great golden goddess from days long forgotten. He could see her arrayed in bright shining armor, a shield to her side, a great gleaming sword in her hand. The devouring blade dipped down like a sickle, cutting wide swaths through the ranks of the enemy, casting the dead to the side as though they were heaps of blighted weeds.

Her heart swelling with pride and a desperate fervor, Elfhild cast a pleading glance towards her aunt, begging her to understand. Though in the past their families had oft been at odds with each other, at this moment, the hearts of both Goldwyn and Elfhild beat in one accord. Elffled, though, stared down at the ground, her mind struggling to comprehend the frenzy which swirled around her like the churning waves of a flooding river. Curse Goldwyn! She had filled the women's minds with so much fear that she had driven them mad!

"Nay, nay, we will not go ashamed to the halls! We are with you, Goldwyn!" many of the younger women cried, while the older ones held back and thought of their children.

The guard on duty halted in his rounds and looked askance at the women. "Why are you up at such a late hour? Is there some disagreement amongst you?"

Goldwyn turned on him, her blue eyes blazing. "Nay!" she spat angrily. "How could we sleep? You make too damn much noise!"

Momentarily taken aback, the guard retreated a few paces. "Women!" he thought, shaking his head. "Who can understand them? Damn such work anyway! I feel like a eunuch guarding a harem of surly slave girls!" Glaring at the captives, he retaliated with a warning. "Well, I will let you off this time, but you must go to sleep soon. We leave early upon the morrow." Muttering under his breath, the guard walked away.

When she was certain that the guard was out of hearing range, Goldwyn spat to the side. "I do not wish to live the rest of my life under the control of savages like that! They are petty men, barbarians, little above orcs!"

Frithuswith stepped forward into the light of the fire. "We are only women! What else can we do?" she asked, uncertain of the wisdom of defying the slavers.

"Try! Dare to attempt! You can do that!" Goldwyn drew in a deep breath. "You can put one foot in front of the other and flee! Defy them! Show them that we are not the daughters of slaves, but of free men! Show them that we are free women, the daughters of brave warriors, not simpering fools who kiss the feet of their bloated masters! Show them that we will fight! Do not let your children grow up under the yoke of slavery and eat the bitter fruits of bondage!"

"Goldwyn, I am with you!" Her features infused with a frenzy approaching battle lust, Waerburh raised her clenched fist into the air. "I would die gladly if it were in honor and go to the halls of the fathers with head unbowed!"

"Swear with me then! Swear upon the sword of Eorl the Young and the bones and memory of our fallen warriors! Swear!" Goldwyn screamed into the night. "Swear that you will defy them until your last breath!"

Waerburh, the tears streaming down her cheeks, clasped Goldwyn by the hand. "I swear by this oath and more I swear! I will take death before I will submit again!"

"It is done. We are united!" Goldwyn murmured as she clenched Waerburh's hand tightly.

"You are mad!" Leofgifu cried, unable to believe all that she had heard that evening.

Goldwyn and Waerburh turned and looked at her in scorn. "While you may not want to join us," Goldwyn exclaimed, "at least do not be against us!"

"Where insanity reigns, reasoning flees," Leofgifu told her quietly. "I will aid you, but I will not be part of this folly. Risk all for hope and gain nothing. I cannot bless this!" With a sad shake of her head, she moved away from the bright glare of the fire.

"My sisters!" Goldwyn addressed the rest of the women. "We will now pretend to sleep, and when the fire has burnt to the embers, we will act. Let silence in the camp be the signal. Aeffe," she turned to the quiet girl, "since you will not join us, are you brave enough to raise the alarm?"

"Aye, I can do that," Aeffe replied without hesitation.

"Then scream and cry out, 'Help me! Help me! I am hurt!' When those of us who are attempting this venture hear your voice, we will all run in different directions, scatter out, and perchance some will escape."

"I will scream very loudly... I am a good screamer." Aeffe smiled brightly.

"Good. Then it is settled." Goldwyn looked to Fródwine. "Come, son. We will wait with your brothers."

"I am ready, Mother." His voice broke as he took her arm in his. 

"My little boy is becoming a man," she murmured proudly. "I think his voice is cracking with the coming of age."

"I am not yet a man, Mother." Fródwine blushed as he led her away from the fire.

"There is still plenty of time for growing up," Goldwyn chuckled. "Now let us prepare for the journey home."


	22. Will We Ever Meet Again?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

At last the commotion in the camp had settled into a soft whisper of last debates, desperate pleas, and final goodbyes. Those who planned to escape took inventory of their hastily compiled hoard of food. There was little of it to fill their pockets, only the leftovers from the day before, and the more generous quantities which had been taken from that day's dole. The meager supply could be stretched out for only a few days, but they prayed fortune would be with them after that.

Now came the hours of waiting. Impatience rose like a fever, burning at the minds of the women. They were like the horses of their land, chomping at the bits, muscles tense and ready for the final charge, every sense alert and aware. Far above the camp, the stars twinkled in the night sky, pulsing with energy and light, throbbing like the steady thumping of hearts determined to do or die. The very air seemed charged, as though at any moment lightning could rip through the darkness, the maddening silence shattered by a crash of thunder.

After her mind had been destroyed by grief and sorrow, Breguswith had oft been the charge of Leofgifu, Waerburh or Goldwyn, but tonight she was in the care of her family. Because of the dismal state of Breguswith's senses, her kinswomen knew that her future as a slave would be a grim one. Her madness had caught the scrutinizing eye of the slave merchant, Shakh Awidan, who was sorely displeased at the flawed merchandise that the orcs were attempting to sell him. Oh, truly were these Southrons heartless!

If Breguswith were left behind, she would be completely at the mercy of her captors. Who knew what horrors would befall her? They might consider her too much of a burden and kill her, or condemn her to the endless ravishments and tortures of the dreaded orc breeding pits. No, no, that must never happen! Breguswith's kinswomen vowed they would protect her to the end. She would go with them on their desperate journey. They told her they were taking her home; that seemed to satisfy her, and she was content. 

Elfhild and Elffled milled about the camp, seeking old friends from Grenefeld. Hastily formed plans were made with those who wanted to escape – "Try to find us in the darkness, and we can run away together" – and sorrowful farewells were given to the ones who had decided to stay behind. With great sadness the twins said goodbye once more to Aeffe, whom they had just met that day. Alas! Indeed it was a pity that their newfound friendship should last for so short a while.

In silent resignation, Elffled listened to each one of her twin's attempts to repeat Goldwyn's impassioned speech using her own words. When the captives were allowed to move about freely within their encampment, Elffled had hoped to reunite with cousins and old friends... maybe even make new friends, like Aeffe. What would be the ramifications of this rebellion if it were crushed before it even began? Would the captives be watched even more closely than they had when the army orcs had been their guards? Would all who attempted to escape be punished -- even put to death? Her mind was filled with a tempest of misgivings, but she would not embarrass her sister and herself by challenging her in front of the other girls!

When the twins returned to the spot where their aunt had chosen to rest, they saw that she was trying to persuade Hunig to go back to sleep. The child had been awakened by the commotion sparked by Goldwyn's return and the impassioned speech and turbulent debate which followed. Unsettled by all she had heard, Hunig chafed against the prospect of resting and pestered her mother with endless questions.

"Why are we not going home like all the others?" she asked with all the curiosity of a seven-year-old. "I want to go home!"

Leofgifu sighed, her words coming out in a monotone. For the past two days, she had felt she was trying to reason with mad women, and now she had to deal with the foolish prattle of children. "...The journey home is long and dangerous," she droned on. "We cannot attempt it."

"Why not?" Hunig demanded impatiently, putting her hands on her hips. "Everyone else is going. We will be left here all alone!"

"Not everyone is going on this foolish quest!" Leofgifu snapped. She was at her wit's end with all this wild and foolish talk. "I am not going, and neither are you, Athelwyn. We will stay right here and wait for the others to be returned to us."

"Y-yes, Mother," Hunig whimpered, taken aback by her mother's harsh words and the use of her given name.

A great sigh of weariness escaping her chest, Leofgifu put a hand to her aching forehead. "Hunig, we have to be up in just a few hours. You best go to sleep, lest you be too exhausted to help. Remember, you are supposed to scream when I do, claiming that you are hurt."

Elfhild watched the exchange and tried not to allow sadness to creep into her heart. The tiny confrontation between mother and daughter brought comfort, for it was so commonplace and ordinary. It also brought anguish, for she was reminded of her own mother. What did this escape really mean? Freedom, aye, but separation from her small, fragmented family, the only ones she had left in this cruel world.

Waiting until Hunig lay blanketed in Leofgifu's soft woolen cloak, Elfhild beckoned her aunt over to where she and her sister sat. Elffled turned soft eyes upon the approaching figure. She knew what the ensuing debate would be about, and what would be its outcome before anyone spoke a word. She felt winter's chill creeping into her heart, the hopeless sense of apathy one feels when faced with the inability to alter a course set into motion by others.

When Leofgifu was seated, Elfhild cleared her throat hesitantly and looked from her sister to her aunt. "We must talk, all three of us..." She halted, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak. How does one put such emotion into mere words? How does a little breeze cause a strong oak to bend? How does a single droplet of water carve out a river's course in the unrelenting earth? How could Elfhild get her aunt to listen?

"When we cross the Great River, there will be no going back..." Tears surged beneath Elfhild's lower eyelids, and she fought with all her might to keep them at bay. "Oh, please, will you not reconsider your decision?" Desperation crept into her voice, and her words came out in a rush.

In the subtle gleam of many small campfires, Elffled gazed into the face of her sister; the quivering lips, the glistening eyes, the tremulous, jerky movements of her body as she nervously shifted her weight on the ground. Perhaps Leofgifu could talk some sense into the girl. Perhaps there was still hope...

"No," Leofgifu shook her head gravely. "I have said many times already that I will not adventure this folly. My mind is set; there is no changing it."

A tiny smile curved the corners of Elffled's lips. "Oh, please talk my sister out of this!" she silently pleaded. "Please, oh, please!"

"Please, Aunt!" Elfhild begged, slamming her fist into her thigh. "Were you not listening when Waerburh told her story? What if the same fate happens to you?" Bringing her fists to her mouth, she gnawed upon her knuckles. "Oh, we have heard only a little of the cruelty of this Southron, this Esarhaddon uHuzziya, but his heart is a dark one and I would wager his savagery knows no limits!" A shudder of fear and disgust rocked her body from head to toe. "Oh, how I hate him!"

"You have scarcely spoken with the man, and yet he is the instigator of all the evils in the world?" Leofgifu raised a sandy eyebrow. "Why, with the way everyone is speaking, he is more powerful than the Dark Lord Himself!" She chuckled grimly. "We cannot lash out against the true Enemy Whose designs and stratagems have cost us our villages, kinsfolk and freedom, so we direct all our hatred towards this one Southron."

Elfhild stared in disbelief at her aunt, her mouth almost dropping open. "Aunt, are you actually defending this wicked man?"

"No," Leofgifu answered solemnly, shaking her head and raising her hand in protest. "Anyone who is in the immoral business of selling innocent men, women and children into slavery is unscrupulous and has little or no conscience. A scoundrel he is, indeed, and what he did to Waerburh is unforgivable. But we are allowing wild panic to command our minds."

"Strange it was that few feared those ruffian cavalrymen from Khand," Elffled commented snidely, mocking eyes turned upon her sister. "I thought that I might get crushed in the mad rush for candy and sweetmeats."

True, the remark was the utmost of pettiness, but Elffled did not want to have any part in this foolish, dangerous venture. She wanted to stay with her aunt and cousin as long as she could. Oh, why was Elfhild trying to tear what remained of their family apart? Her stubbornness would destroy any happiness that they could find in the brief time they had left to remain together. These might even be the last memories they would ever have of one another.

Oh, how Elffled hated Goldwyn! This madness was all her fault! Always a gossip and a busybody, now the woman had turned her hand to rabble-rousing. Oh, how Elffled wished this were all just some bad dream!

Ignoring her niece's inappropriate comment, Leofgifu went on. "Look around us." She made a broad, sweeping gesture towards their surroundings. "All the land is barren and drought-stricken. How will we fare without food? What if the darkness comes back, and with it more famine? Even before the dreadful night Grenefeld was raided, we constantly feared that our food supply would run out. With every day being an unending evening, the crops became sickly and wilted away, and we were forced to rely upon dwindling supplies left over from last winter. Tell me, Elfhild and Elffled, where do you expect to find food enough for the journey?"

Elfhild glared at her aunt, for she had the audacity to challenge the brave quest for freedom. "Surely in the mountains, there will be those of Gondor and the Mark who have hidden away enough supplies to last for a long while."

Oh, why could Leofgifu not be more like her mother? Brave and steadfast had been Athelthryth. Surely she would agree to Goldwyn's plans! Elfhild had never before realized how much Goldwyn was like her mother. Oh, what would Athelthryth have thought of her daughter's contemplating such things! She and Goldwyn had despised each other. Now Elfhild held Goldwyn in much higher regard. No longer was she a petty woman who looked upon the twins' family with scorn, but rather a brave leader, much like Athelthryth herself. Elfhild's heart was stirred with admiration and affection. She only wished she could be so strong and valiant.

As her sister spoke of vain hopes, Elffled felt like saying, "And what will sustain us on the journey to the mountains? Ah, take heart and do not despair: maybe we can eat pebbles... you know, pebble soup, pebble stew, pebble porridge, pebble bread... and when we become weary of that, we can eat dirt instead, or maybe bark and dried out moss." However, her mouth remained clamped tightly shut, and she kept her sarcasm to herself.

"And what of the winter, Elfhild?" Leofgifu questioned sagely. "Even if you could find someone who would give you succor, there will be little harvest when autumn comes. I am loath to say this, but if we wish to live, we must remain with the Southrons. It seems that the lands allied with the Enemy did not suffer from the dark dearth, for these slavers never want for anything."

"But that would mean willingly going into slavery!" Elfhild cried, reeling back with dismay.

Leofgifu set her jaw grimly. "It is either that or starve to death."

"But if we are to be slaves, then we have no control over our fates! What if we are separated when we are sold?" Elfhild's eyes were wide with fear.

Flinching, Elffled bit her tongue to keep from speaking. "And you want to divide us before then?" her thoughts raged. "You, my dear sister, are far crueler than any of the Southrons!"

"I hold to this one hope and this hope alone - that the two of you and my daughter might live," Leofgifu spoke quietly. "Other than that, I am resigned to whatever happens to me." With alarm the twins noticed that the lines of care seemed riven more deeply in her face, and she appeared to have grown much older, but perhaps this was only a trick of the dim firelight. All of them had paid the price for this journey; some more than others.

"What solace is that!" Elfhild cried, desperately. "We might never see each other again!"

"You are both beautiful girls... if you keep from angering the men too greatly, I have no doubt that you will be bought by a wealthy lord." Leofgifu smiled wanly. "All of the men who have looked upon you have noticed your loveliness and marveled that there could be two such attractive maidens so identical in appearance. If Esarhaddon uHuzziya is a..." she almost choked upon the words, "a sensible merchant, he would sell you together, for, separated, you would lack the charm of comely twins who hail from a faraway land."

"But I do not want to be a slave!" Elfhild wailed, on the verge of tearing out her hair. How could her aunt so casually condemn her to a life of carnal servitude to her enemies, as though she were speaking of a matter of no more import than the length of a sow's tail if it were stretched straight?

"Sometimes we must do things in life that we would fain not do," Leofgifu explained gently. "When your mother and I were young, there was a poor tenant farmer who tilled a parcel of land owned by the thane. One spring day, the farmer was called to do service with the riders, and he never returned. His wife, now a widow with a babe and no close kin, was unable to work the land herself. Though some neighbors helped as well as they could, there was never enough. She was close to despairing for herself and her child, but one evening, nigh to dusk, the thane rode to her hut. He brought her some food and an offer."

Leofgifu rubbed one work-calloused palm against the other. "'Twas said that he did not leave until morning. After that, the woman was always well provided for, and never wanted for aught. The thane soon found other men to work the land, but she was left the use of the cottage. She was a very pretty woman with sparkling blue eyes and long, golden blonde hair - much like the two of you. Probably she would have abided under this... arrangement for as long as she lived... but the thane died - for he was not a young man. The miller's son took a great fancy to her and wed her in spite of what she had been and done."

Sighing deeply, Leofgifu looked down at her hands and then back up to the twins. "My dears, sometimes we must compromise in order to survive. The woman did not want to besmirch her honor, but what else could she do! Let her child starve while she congratulated herself upon her piety and respectability? In the village, they called her a harlot behind her back. Perhaps that was what she was - but I could never pass judgment upon her, for should I have been faced with the same circumstances," she drew out her words, "I would have done the same!"

Leofgifu paused for a moment to rest her voice, then resumed speaking. "What I am saying - and be neither shocked nor offended - is that there is nothing else for the two of you... no other hope... and if I understand things, there is some man - even though he may be a Southron or an Easterling - who would be more than willing to give you everything you need and want. He would treat you right, perhaps someday even make you his pampered favorites. A rich man, a lord," she laughed wryly, "maybe even a king."

Elfhild looked down, tears in her eyes. She did not want this life which it seemed that fate had chosen for her. She wanted to be the honorable wife of a kind man - a man of the Mark - who loved her, not the mistress of an enemy lord, nor his wife, nor a whore in a brothel. She had not even known that such houses of sin existed until she had heard the orcs speak of them, and she lamented the loss of her mind's innocence in such matters. Oh, how she wanted to be home, among her own people, far from this place of misery!

"Aunt," Elffled's soft voice broke the gloomy silence, "what will happen to you?"

Leofgifu's shoulders slumped. Elffled would have to ask that! "Well," she managed a grim chuckle, "I am not the most comely or the youngest woman in all of Middengeard. Just look at this hair!" She reached up and tugged a section of the fuzzy mass of spiral curls which crowned her head. "It looks like the matted wool of a long-haired sheep! And my teeth!" Making a disgusted face, she wrinkled her nose. "Although they are sound, some of them are crooked." Sighing, she shook her head sadly. "No, I do not think that a lord shall lavish his attentions upon me the way he would upon the two of you. I will probably spend my days as a servant in a wealthy household. Maybe my duties shall be taking care of the children, or perhaps cleaning or cooking. Those tasks are hardly offensive. In fact, I think I might rather enjoy them."

"What about Hunig?" Elffled asked, concerned for her little cousin.

A spasm of darkest worry abruptly transformed Leofgifu's face into a mask of anguish, but she forced herself not to dwell upon her worst fears, lest the twins become alarmed. The expression of dread quickly faded away, replaced by the usual wearied concern. "She is so young," Leofgifu murmured softly. "Surely they will allow her to stay with me. She could help me in my tasks."

Sensing the fears that haunted her aunt's nightmares and waking thought, Elfhild seized the moment with an unanticipated outburst of frantic emotion. "What if they sell us all separately - you and Hunig, and Elffled and me!" she cried, her voice filled with panic. "These men are evil and cruel, and I would wager that a good number of them are completely insane! What if we are bought by men such as these? Oh, we shall all die in agony!" Shivering in fright, she closed her eyes tightly and clutched her forearms as though she were freezing to death. "Oh, do you not see why we should make this escape attempt together!" Opening her eyes, she looked her aunt straight in the face. "Let us not be sundered forever! I am going," she declared staunchly, "and Elffled is going with me!"

Slowly and with great care, Elffled exhaled, letting out her breath in one long, prolonged sigh. Oh, why could her sister not listen to the voice of reason? A sudden impulse seized Elffled, and she felt like attacking her twin with an axe, cutting off the top of her silly little head, and pouring in an ample dose of common sense and wisdom. She hid her clenched fists in the folds of her skirt and fumed silently, a wicked little smile curling her lips as she thought with morbid glee of how she would reattach the bloody top of her sister's skull to the bottom.

Of course, she would go. Refusal had never been an option. "I do have a choice, I know," Elffled thought with a wry sense of tranquility. "I could stay behind and let her go ahead and undertake her own marvelous adventure all by herself. She would learn her lesson soon enough! But I cannot do that. I will go with her, even if we should starve to death, or die at the hands of our enemies. But, oh, I vow that I shall have the last word, for I shall tell her in my last breath that this whole idea was the utmost of folly!"

Obviously unimpressed with her niece's hysterical theatrics, Leofgifu gave Elfhild a kind, pitying look. "We will not be separated for long," she stated flatly, sure of the truth in her words. "They will set their orc trackers upon your trail, and 'tis said that they are better than hunting dogs at finding their quarry. No matter how frightened you are, do not struggle against them, for their masters, the slavers, would not be likely to allow them to harm you. They will bring you back, I hope, no worse off than when you set out. I will be waiting for you when you return. That is my only value now - to tend the fires of welcome." Resigned to sadness, she dropped her gaze and stared down at her folded hands resting in her lap.

The resolve which had kept her emotions in check now crumbling, Elfhild began to weep. "Oh, Aunt! I will miss you!" she cried, her voice shrill and wavering.

"May Béma keep you safe," Leofgifu whispered, reaching out her arms as Elfhild leaned forward to embrace her.

"Will we ever meet again?" Elfhild sobbed quietly.

Leofgifu gently patted her back. "Someday, my dear child, we will be reunited..." Perhaps sooner than you think, she thought to herself.

The remaining time was spent in tears and quiet contemplation. Sleep was not welcome in these last moments together, for soon they would face the prospect of being parted forever.


	23. Flight Through Osgiliath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild  
  
Hungering, the night predators sought the weak ones who scampered heedlessly on their way. The owls dipped their wings and dived down, their talons grasping and slashing, shredding living flesh into fragments. The high-pitched calls of the grayish brown bats echoed and cross-echoed until the size and the location of their tiny prey was visualized in their brains. The hunters of the skies drank their fill until the comforting sense of fullness signaled a halt to the feasting.  
  
The campfires burned low, their heat dying away to slumbering embers. The sounds of merriment in the slavers' camp had fallen silent, and the guffawing louts who had drunk far too much wine now snored loudly and twitched in their sleep. Murmuring an "All is well," the guards on night patrol looked to the captives, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Raising their drinking flasks to their mouths, the guards continued their watch.  
  
Suddenly the tranquility of the night was ripped apart by a woman's shrill scream for help. The wail was a clarion call, serving as both a proclamation that the escape was about to commence and a distraction to keep the slavers from anticipating the wild charge that was to follow. On the other side of the encampment, another woman screamed, and children bawled and bleated out fearful shrieks. Then from all quarters of the camp, women screamed out great horrendous calls of alarm. In confusion, the guards looked about, uncertain of the cause of the pandemonium that reigned throughout the slaves' area.  
  
Her hair streaming wildly behind her as she ran, Aeffe wailed like a terrified wraith fleeing across a barrowfield. "Over here! Help, help! Follow me quickly!" she called as she raced past an open-mouthed young guard. Bewildered, he set off after her. The moon had long since departed from the summer sky, and the guard cursed when her willowy form disappeared into the shadows.  
  
Laughing to herself, Aeffe hid behind a tall column of weathered stone. Her cry of "Please, please! Come quickly!" sent more guards racing after her. When she heard the sound of heavy footsteps charging through the ruins, she turned and fled towards the river and took refuge behind a tall, leafless tree. "Perhaps if I should hear Inbir's voice, I will allow him to capture me." That thought brought a smile to her lips and a warm glow to her heart.  
  
Aeffe rested against the tree, listening for the sound of pursuit. She had been there for a few moments when she heard someone approaching. Drawing a sharp intake of air, she clutched the trunk of the tree, blending into its shadow, trying to make herself appear smaller. A woman streaked past, heading towards the Anduin. Panting heavily, the woman paused momentarily, turning her head and looking fearfully behind her. She was scarcely out of sight when another woman ran past the tree. Cursing and snarling, the orcs were hot on her heels. Aeffe waited until the voices died away in the distance before racing upstream among the trees.  
  
As Aeffe and other women confounded and frustrated the guards, those women who longed for escape made the best of their chances. It was said that the Rohirrim could see more clearly at night than could other men, but whether that was true or not, the months of darkness had indeed strengthened their vision. Still, though, even with that advantage, the flight through the gloom and labyrinthine ruins posed a formidable challenge.  
  
Elfhild had clutched her aunt and cousin in a desperate embrace, whispering one last farewell. Then she scampered away into the darkness, her reluctant but loyal sister following closely behind her. Little Hunig, who was doing her best to be brave, sniffled as her cousins disappeared into the night.  
  
Fleeing in a different direction were Breguswith's kinswomen, pulling the poor, mad Breguswith along with them. They implored her to be quiet, but their pleas were ignored by Breguswith, who had fallen into a strange fit of mirthfulness and laughed happily as she clutched at her little bundle of rags.  
  
Goldwyn and her sons could see flickering torches weaving through the darkness, the amber orbs bobbing like enormous fireflies. The night was filled with the screams of frightened women and children who stumbled through the ruins and underbrush in their flight. "Keep together!" Goldwyn urged desperately. "Fródwine, hold tight to Frumgár's hand and follow me!" Pulling Fritha along behind her, she ran half-crouching towards the River, the other boys hurrying behind.  
  
A great hue and cry had gone up in the nearby orc camp. "Urk ta! Mal latum?" their harsh voices demanded. "Grumbull-ar sûru glûb thachgulum ghung kulûk gugshuz!" Confused and with no direction, the orcs milled about wildly, and some, thinking there was a brawl, turned and began plummeting each other savagely.  
  
Ubri uMandum, the slaver's first lieutenant, pushed the sleepy harlot's warm body away from him as he slid from his couch.  
  
"What is it, Master!" she cried, her voice taut with fear.  
  
"There is some disturbance in the slave encampment, and I must see what it is... surprised you did not hear all the commotion, but you were sleeping the slumber of the wicked." Grinning, Ubri yawned and scratched the thick mat of black hair on his chest. "Sang-mí, while I am gone, go back to the tent with the other women and occupy yourself with your babe... I will send a man to escort you," he told her as he hurriedly pulled on his sirwal and pantaloons.  
  
"Is there a raid?" The gentle girl's voice quivered with dread. Not bothering with the light robe which lay discarded on the floor, she rose to her feet. Her dark eyes searched his face in the dim light of the brass lantern which hung from the ceiling frame.  
  
"Who would be foolish enough to attempt that?" Ubri laughed dryly as he finished dressing, strapping his sword belt around his middle.  
  
"Rebellious Gondorians?" she offered, nervously clenching her hands.  
  
"Your innocence greatly amuses me, Sang-mí. The bravest ones of the enemy were the first to be slain in the war. The weaker ones were captured. Those remaining do not have the courage to challenge us."  
  
"I am corrected, Master. Please forgive this worthless slave." Sang-mí bowed her head in chastised humility.  
  
Bending down, Ubri hastily kissed her as he fondly caressed her bare, milk-swollen breasts. "I shall want a draught of this sweet nectar when I return," he murmured as he rolled a henna-stained nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Stay warm for me."  
  
Sang-mí moaned softly as his hand squeezed her throbbing breast. "For you, my lord, above all the others, my fires are perpetually raging!" she purred throatily. "I would come to you even if you did not pay me!"  
  
"When I get back to you, I will enjoy quenching your fires once more." He pulled her to him for another hungry kiss before striding out of the tent.  
  
Torches flickered ahead of him, and as Ubri walked towards the glow, he saw that a number of guards had gathered. Half-dressed and angry at being awakened from their sleep, the guards had staggered from their tents. Now they stood about in small, sullen groups, talking in low voices. Met by a half-breed orc, Ubri demanded, "What in the hell is going on!"  
  
Looking at the grim-faced man before him, the confused orc slipped into a mixture of garbled Common and Black. "Bag pushdug, Master! By the holy Melkor's black balls, it's all over! We're nazhatuga! Shakh azubizgûk!"  
  
"Talk sense! What do you mean?"  
  
"Sundug irzatug!" The orc's eyes bulged with alarm.  
  
"Iluga amat kul lat gundug tul?" Ubri demanded in disgust. "Darg hai-lab sundug-la!"  
  
"Akhoth!" The orc saluted, clasping his right fist to his left shoulder, before turning and lumbering away.  
  
Ubri cursed and spat on the ground as Inbir came trotting up, a torch in his right hand.  
  
"Ubri," an out of breath Inbir panted, "I hastened here as quickly as I could! What is the trouble? Are the half-breeds involved in yet another one of their perpetual quarrels and tussles?"  
  
"Nothing so simple as that, Inbir," the older man explained in disgust. "It seems the damned fools have allowed some of the captives to escape!"  
  
Inbir shook his head. "That is what happens when such filth as those animals must be employed to do the work of men!"  
  
"The policies of the shakh's trading establishment are not matters of my concern." Ubri turned to one of the other guards. "Send a man to inform Shakh Esarhaddon of what has transpired. I pity the poor wretch who has to bear this news to him." His brows puckered in a deep scowl.  
  
"The messenger deserves our condolences. The Shakh will be angrier than a goaded ram!" Inbir cast an apprehensive glance towards the slaver's brightly lighted pavilion. "I think he already knows some work is afoot!"  
  
Ubri touched Inbir's forearm. "We might as well warm ourselves by the fire until the orcs come back with their report. My friend, while we wait, we will share a few draughts from my flask. That will make us both feel better."  
  
"And perhaps enjoy a jest or two?" Inbir's eyes brightened as he stroked his thin, well-groomed beard.  
  
"Or a tale... Perhaps you would like to tell me about the woman who is your current fancy, this blonde-haired Northern wench, Aeffe." Ubri looked at his friend with tolerant amusement before slapping him across the back.  
  
"She is a lovely gazelle who has enslaved my heart with one glance from her doe-like eyes! What more is there to say?" Inbir's lustrous eyes softened in a smile, his tawny face highlighting his white teeth.   
  
***  
  
"Be careful, Elffled!" hissed Elfhild as the two almost crashed into a pile of rubble in the darkness. Stumbling, they climbed over the pieces of the broken leg of a marble statue of King Tarannon Falastur, twelfth King of Gondor. As she scampered down the other side of a huge chunk of stone, Elfhild heard a thud and a grunt behind her. Elffled's foot had caught in a vine, and she fell sprawling over the rocks, scraping her hands and knees.   
  
"Are you hurt?" Elfhild turned around to see her sister gingerly climbing down from the ancient king's ruined image.  
  
"Not much," Elffled muttered sullenly. "I do not think they will have to cut off my leg anyway."  
  
Ignoring her sister's snide remark, Elfhild cautioned, "We need to get our bearings. We will hide here behind that pile of rubble up ahead. I know we are near the Anduin because I can see the silhouettes of the trees along the riverbank." She paused, listening. "Shh, Elffled! I think I hear something moving over there!" Her trembling finger pointed to a raised set of broken marble steps close by.  
  
Quivering with fear, both girls waited in silent dread, expecting to see the hulking form of a fierce orc lunge out at them from behind the mound of stone. The sound of a wicked snarl sent the sisters whimpering and clutching each other in abject terror. A pale form streaked out from the recesses of the stones. Wailing out "Curses upon you!" in his own language, a large white cat streaked out from his lair and dashed away from the sisters.  
  
"A cat as white as the spectre of death!" Elfhild gasped, her hand clutching at her heart. "Remember that old Gondorian peddler who came through our village every few years?" She paused to catch her breath. "He said that such cats are oft witches' servants! This does not bode well at all!" After whispering a petition to Béma Wáthfréa to protect them both from evil, she grabbed Elffled's sleeve and fanatically urged, "Let us hurry away from this place!" The sisters broke into a run and left the once magnificent memorial to King Tarannon Falastur behind them.  
  
Spitting angrily, the tom stalked back to the place near his lair where the girls had surprised him. His tail went up, his back shuddered, and a stream of yellow liquid sprayed out, splattering on the king's stone leg. Head held high in regal dignity, the cat marched back to his resting place. Even a small taste of vengeance against both the unwelcome intruders and the despised king could be sweet to a royal descendant of the infamous cats of Queen Beruthiel.  
  
Leaving the cat's claim to his territory unchallenged, the sisters raced towards the River. All about them they could hear screams and whimpering pleas for mercy. It was obvious that one by one the other women were being recaptured. How many still remained free? The twins heard the splash of something heavy hitting the water, and their hearts were clutched with dread. Had one of the women lost all hope and sought Death's final escape in the waters of the Anduin?  
  
There was a heavy, deep silence, grim and foreboding. The long wail of another accursed soul rent the stillness of the night. The sisters heard a splash as the arms of a watery grave were opened to yet another of the hapless. All was deathly quiet for a while, and then the marsh frogs which dwelt in the shallows along the Anduin began to sing once more.  
  
"Waerburh... it must be Waerburh," Elfhild panted, her pounding heart feeling as though it had been stabbed through. "She vowed she would choose death over recapture, and she must have carried through with her oath!"  
  
"Oh no," gasped Elffled, and she swallowed, saliva sliding down her dry throat. "Who then was the other?"  
  
"Perhaps we will never know," Elfhild murmured. A chill raced up her spine, causing her shoulders to convulse as though her body was attempting to shake off the uneasy feeling. "Cut back north," she commanded hoarsely. Veering their course away from the Anduin, the sisters plunged through the darkness, their breaths coming hard and fast, their hearts pounding with exertion. On they ran through deserted streets and around ruined columns, tall arches, and the hulking shells of once magnificent buildings. Behind them they could hear the sound of pursuit, and soon there was the heavy pounding of iron-shod boots upon the stone. The orcs were close!  
  
"Be quiet!" Elfhild hissed as she pulled her sister inside the wreckage of a huge stone building. Crouching behind a fallen column which lay upon the floor's chipped and faded mosaic, the girls tried to slow their heavy breathing. They would hide there for a time and then move on when the danger had passed.  
  
***  
NOTES  
  
"Urk ta! Mal latum?" - Damn it! What's going on?   
"Grumbull-ar sûru glûb thachgulum ghung kulûk gugshuz!" - The higher ups will piss their breeches if anything has happened!  
"Bag pushdug" - Stinking dung  
"Nazhatuga!" - We're screwed!  
"Shakh azubizgûk!" - The lord will kill us all!  
"Sundug irzatug!" - The captives are escaping!  
"Iluga amat kul lat gundug tul? Darg hai-lab sundug-la!" - Then why are you standing here? Send your folk after the captives!  
"Akhoth!" - Yes, sir!  
  
Black Speech is written in the Shadowlandian (LOS) dialect; a few words are taken from the Svartiska dialect.


	24. Racing Toward Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving at the ruins of Minas Tirith, the Rohirric captives are handed over to a group of Haradric slavers led by Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the owners of a slave trading business in Nurn. A man of might and mastery, this handsome, rakish Southron symbolizes everything that the women dread.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

"Mother, I hear them coming," whispered Fródwine. Goldwyn and her three sons had taken shelter near a collapsed aqueduct which had once carried water from the river to the city. Tears rolled down Fritha's cheeks, and though he attempted to cry quietly, a muffled sob escaped his lips. 

"I hear them, too, Fródwine," his mother's tense voice hissed from the darkness.

"What will we do? Run for it?" Frumgár asked anxiously.

"Son, let us wait and see," Goldwyn replied in a whisper. She licked her finger and held it up, feeling the slight breeze cool on her wet skin. "So far we are in luck; we are upwind from them."

"But, Mother! I see torches!" A shiver of fear raced up Frumgár's spine, and the hair at the base of his neck stood on end. He gulped down his terror and concentrated on watching the torches as they came ever nearer. Would these fearful beasts be so enraged that they would kill all four of them?

"Mother," Fródwine gripped his mother's arm, "I am going to run out where they can see me, jump up and down, wave my arms and dare them to catch me! The orcs will be distracted, and I can lead them away from the rest of you!"

"You will do no such thing, Fródwine, so get that foolish thought out of your mind!" Trying to keep her voice calm, Goldwyn gripped a piece of broken stone which jutted from the decaying aqueduct's base until her knuckles turned white. She must not let them see how worried she was.

"What are we going to do then, Mother? They are getting closer by the moment!" The eldest son looked into his mother's face, hoping she would guide him. He wanted to protect his mother and brothers, but he knew he was no match for the terrible brutes who tracked them.

His chin pressed against the ground, Fritha could see six torches coming ominously close, like pillars of fire striking against the darkness. The moving torchlight twisted the orcs' brutish features into even more monstrous forms. With a shudder, Fritha's scant courage left him at that moment. His face flushed red in embarrassment as he felt a warm stream of urine soak his breeches and pool beneath him. He shut his eyes tightly, but he could not keep the tears from running down his face and dripping on the ground.

Such great hulking brutes they were, grotesque, foul and bent upon mischief and malice. Though they labored in the employ of men, only a thin facade of civilization covered their animal essences. Amongst the guttural sounds of the orcs, the four could hear a man's voice. 

"You told me that your folk have caught their scent." The deep, accented voice sounded irritated as he spoke in Black Speech. He had never liked the accursed tongue, but in his profession, he had to learn as many languages as he could. "Where are they?" he demanded, his face tense and drawn.

"Master," the uruk answered, "the escaped slaves must be around here somewhere! They could not have gone far!"

"Then find the runaways, but see that you do not harm them!" The man wondered if the uruks had any more idea where the escaped prisoners were than he did. Perhaps they were only leading him on some fool's errand, and planned to get him hopelessly lost.

"Physician, by the flames that burn eternally in the guts of the Mountain of Fire, we won't harm a hair on their pretty golden heads!" The orc's yellow eyes seemed to gleam in the darkness.

"Then proceed," Tushratta told him. The orc bowed, and he and his companions moved forward, their nostrils trying to catch the scent. The physician walked faster. Damn the brutes! If they broke into a run, he would be hard pressed to keep up with them!  

"Fródwine," Goldwyn gazed into her eldest son's eyes with a look that drove a knife into his heart and twisted the blade in deep, "take care of Frumgár and Fritha. I am going to lead the beasts away."

"Mother, no!" Fródwine whispered, clutching her sleeve as she rose to a crouching position. "They will catch you!"

"I am a swift runner, son. They will be chasing me for some time." She touched his face. He was so like his father. "I want you to lead your brothers home! Stay close to the trees, and you must keep Fritha from following me! We will meet again someday, I know it! My heart remains with you all!"

"Mother, please do not!" Fródwine cried, but she was gone. "Oh, Béma, no!" he screamed to himself.

"Mother, you cannot!" Frumgár gasped as he saw their mother leap to her feet and hurry away. Fritha struggled to rise, but Frumgár grabbed him and pinned him to the ground.

"Frumgár, put your hand over his mouth and keep him quiet! If he struggles, hold him down!" Fródwine urged in a whisper. Frumgár's hand caught a wail before it escaped the youngest boy's mouth.

Goldwyn shrieked loudly as she ran across the path of the surprised orcs and the physician. She smiled grimly to herself as she heard their shouts behind her.

Turning to the orc near him, Tushratta demanded, "Your folk can see in this darkness while mine cannot. Do you recognize the woman?"

"Aye, Shakh," the orc replied. "'Tis the little tart whom the Master entertained in his tent earlier, but her pups are not with her."

Tushratta caught the eagerness in the orc's reply, the undisguised lust strong in the creature's voice. "Such base monsters," he thought, repulsed by their loathsome presence.

"There are not enough of us to search for both the boys and their mother! Find the woman, for she is most important! Forget the boys for now!" Tushratta barked out the order. "What a filthy, unpleasant business this is!" he cursed to himself. "Men such as I should never be in the position of chasing slaves! If the guards had not been indulging in their draught as they warmed their lazy rumps around the fire, this escape would never have occurred!"

"Aye, Shakh, they will be found!" the uruk promised as he called to his fellows. "But, physician, can you keep up with us?" The orc hoped that the puny man would lag far behind them, maybe even getting lost. With the physician out of the way, perhaps he and his fellows could have a little sport with the woman before they brought her back to the camp.

"Do not let my pace be of concern to you," he replied acidly. "When you locate the woman, send a man back to fetch me. I should not need to tell you again - make certain orders are followed. No harm to the woman or her sons!"

"Certainly, physician," the orc replied in a simpering tone which Tushratta detested, knowing that it was only lightly concealed sarcasm.

Ahead of them, Goldwyn ran through the ruins. Her fear for her sons was a palpable agony, suffocating her. She must lead the enemies as far away from them as she could! Only then would they have any chance. Running, crouching, keeping low to the arches, columns and decaying ruins, she ran as swiftly as a frightened animal flees before the huntsmen who pursue it. Her mind and heart told her that she was racing towards an inexorable doom - the inevitability of capture, perhaps the nullification of existence - but if it would give her sons time to escape, she would face that situation when it came. Though there was much to regret, her greatest sorrow was that there had been no time to say goodbye.

Pausing, Goldwyn hid behind a pillar that once had supported a giant basilica dedicated to Isildur and Anárion. Pressing her hand to her pounding bosom, she took in great gulps of air, her heart thumping furiously in her chest. In spite of the cool night air, sweat dripped into her eyes and she began to feel clammy and chilled. She thought wryly to herself, "'Tis said that the orcs can smell their quarry; they will not have any trouble scenting me!" She was correct, for behind her, she could hear their exuberant cries and see the glowing torches coming ever nearer. "Like dogs on the scent of a hare!" Taking in a deep breath, she was off again, racing through the rubble and ruin of Osgiliath.

She ran until her legs and lungs were screaming in pain and for lack of air. Leaning against the tall foundations of a building, she feared her belabored breathing would give her away as quickly as her scent did. The torches drew closer. As she bent down and picked up a jagged piece of marble, the cool stone was somehow comforting in her hand as she waited for whatever came.

***

"'Hild, are we going to hide here all night?" Elffled asked, a whining tone to her voice, for her legs were cramped and aching. Long had the twins remained in the ruined marble building, neither girl daring to move.

"No, of course not," hissed Elfhild, becoming irritated. "Be quiet! I am listening."

Elffled looked furtively about them, her eyes striving to pierce the darkness. She wondered how Osgiliath had looked in its days of splendor, before the power of the realm of Gondor had waned. At one time, this place would have been beautiful, but now it was lonely and desolate.

"A city of the dead, a city of spirits and lost dreams," she thought with a shudder, and her only desire was to flee from the labyrinthian wilderness of briar, vine and cold stone. She felt the solemn, invisible presences of the dead ones all around them, watching them with cold indifference. In days long past, great men and women had walked these very streets, but now all that remained was crumbling, lichen-encrusted marble and memories, and the ghosts which kept them. Oh, how she wished that Leofgifu had been able to persuade Elfhild never to embark upon this foolish venture!

"Now," Elfhild whispered, and touched her sister on the shoulder. They rose from their hiding place, and Elfhild led them through the building. Across a courtyard they scampered, leaping over the low balustrade which marked its perimeter. Their feet pounded upon the hard stone, sending harsh vibrations up to their calves.

"There are many hours yet before dawn," Elfhild remarked as they skirted around buildings, through abandoned streets and alleys. "We need to travel as far as we can ere morning. After I deem that we are safe, we can rest for a while and then continue onward at a more leisurely pace. I think that we are close to the Great River."

"Well, if the sound of frogs croaking and the smell of dead fish are any indications, we must be very near. Eww!" Elffled gasped suddenly as her foot landed on something squishy. Looking down, she realized that she had stepped on a pair of mating frogs stuck so tightly together that they did not have time to move. She was sure she had crushed them both dead, but there was no time to fret about it. Scraping her foot off on a rock, she caught up with her sister.

Together the two girls raced, sometimes slowing to a trot when the ground became rougher, and then speeding to a run when it evened out, sometimes tripping and falling over rubble and then getting up and struggling on. Their knees were sore with scrapes, and they knew that their legs would be covered with bruises. Soon they came to a place where a stretch of low growing briar bushes had mingled among the jagged silhouettes. There was a fierce rip as Elffled's skirt caught in the thorns. She tugged on the garment, but the tough, spiny branch resisted her efforts.

"Hurry up, Elffled!" Elfhild whispered, pausing to wait for her sister.

"I am trying," Elffled hissed angrily. "My skirt is caught!"

"Well, try to untangle yourself, even if you have to use your teeth to gnaw the cloth to shreds!" Elfhild snapped sarcastically. "But do not leave any of the material behind - the orcs will use it to catch your scent!" She rolled her eyes at her incompetent sister. Could the girl do nothing right?

Elffled glared at her twin, even though she doubted that the other girl could see the flash of her eyes in the dim light. Then bending down, she gave her skirt a vicious jerk. The hem gave way and the worn material split all the way up to her hip.

"Curses," she muttered under her breath. "Well, at least I am free now."

"Then let us go!" Elfhild hissed.

With Elffled following behind her sister, the twins once again began their desperate race to put distance between themselves and the camp. At last it seemed that the ruins were fewer and farther apart. "We must be on the outskirts of the city," Elfhild judged. "When we break free of the ruins, we will keep close to the trees. The rising of the sun will not be for some hours yet to come, but we must get as far as we can ere dawn."

***

"Where has Mother gone?" Fritha sniffled out after Frumgár had taken his hand from his mouth. 

"I do not know! I do not even know where Fródwine is!" Frumgár hissed. "Just be quiet, please!"

After Goldwyn had left them, Fródwine disappeared into the ruins. When he could hear the uruks following behind him, he ducked behind a ruined column. Chills went down his spine when the group of uruks halted near his hiding place. He cursed when he recognized the voice of the physician. "The bloody bastard! He pretends to help the sick and the wounded, while he takes the gold of the filthy slaver!" he cursed to himself. The orcs grunted a few harsh words to each other and then sped away, the man following at a slower pace behind them. At least they were not going in the direction where his brothers lay hidden, but he knew all too well that the orcs were relentlessly on the trail of his mother. Bending down, he picked up two pieces of broken stone and made his way back to his brothers.

"An orc is coming to kill us, Frumgár!" Fritha whimpered as he saw a figure move out of the shadows and approach them.

"It is only me," Fródwine whispered. "Be quiet!"

"Where is Mother?"

He knelt down on his heels beside Fritha. "You have to be brave... we all have to be brave," his voice almost broke, though he tried to sound as grown up as he could. "I do not think Mother will come back."

"No!" gasped Frumgár. "Do not say that!"

Fritha started to wail again but Frumgár's hand went back over his mouth. The small lad struggled but his brother was heavier and held him pinned to the ground.

"Fritha, I do not want to do this, but if those orcs hear you, they will catch us. Please be quiet! Will you be still?"

Fritha lay there, quietly crying, and nodded his head up and down in affirmation.

"Fródwine, what are we going to do!" Frumgár wanted to sob out his fears, his grief at losing their mother, but he bit his lip. 'Twas time to grow up, even if he was only eight years old.

"We go on, Frumgár," Fródwine replied grimly.

_Here ends the second book of THE CIRCLES._

_The third book is called[TO ESCAPE A DARK DESTINY](http://astele.co.uk/henneth/stories/chapter.cfm?stid=7943), since the volume deals with the plights of Goldwyn, her three sons, and Elfhild and Elffled as they take different paths in their attempt to escape the evil destiny which their enemies have planned for them._


End file.
